No Grave, No Memory
by Mirrordance
Summary: A rescue mission stirs up long-buried memories for Legolas. Secrets of his mother's own imprisonment and torture finally come to light years after her brutal death at Gundabad.
1. Misplaced Memories

**hi everyone!**

Thanks so much to all who read and especially all who voted for and kindly reviewed my last work, _When to Stay_ (the latest installment of my _The Halls of My Home_ series on one-shots). Personalized responses coming soon! I was working on several stories at the same time and ended up finishing nothing when this snuck up on me and suddenly I'm sixty pages deep, lol. I know it's the middle of the week and this probably won't get a lot of eyes but I am in one of those moods and, well - anyone else in the mood for something very very heavy-handed on the angst? No? Just me? I hope not ;)

At any rate, please let me know what you think - c&c's are always welcome. This will be a bit of a stretch for me, and a topic that gets very dark later and one I've long feared to write about so your thoughts are invaluable if you are able to share them. If not - I just hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I intend to give updates every week :)

 **Title: No Grave, No Memory**

 **Summary:** _A rescue mission stirs up long-buried memories for Legolas. Secrets of his mother's own imprisonment and torture finally come to light years after her brutal death at Gundabad._

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 **1: Misplaced Memories**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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The high, vaulted ceilings of the Prince's sleeping chambers comes first as a blur then into sharper relief as his eyes focus. Awareness quickly follows.

He takes a deep breath, and releases it in a long exhale that stutters as it pinches and pulls at a stitch ( _or two or three or a hundred_ ) on his side. He groans and raises his head from his pillows in confusion to look at what afflicts him.

Three pairs of hands cut into his line of sight. They settle – gently but insistently – upon his chest.

"Rest easy, _hir-nin_ ," says one voice.

"Not so fast, Captain," says another.

And a third, "Peace, Legolas."

He is surprised he is not alone even in the privacy of his own rooms, and he is surprised he had not detected the presence of others with him. He quickly understands that it is because he is unwell. But the conclusion brings forth another question. If that is the case, why is he here instead of the healing wards?

He lets himself fall back against the pillows and closes his eyes. His head is swimming, both in lingering affliction and utter confusion. He raises his hands up over his eyes, seeking to find some purchase in the swaying dark.

"Do you know where you are, my lord?"

It is Maenor himself, he realizes. No less than the head of the healing halls and their kingdom's Health Minister attends him here in his own chambers.

"I know..." he rasps out, and dismayed at his gravely voice, he clears his throat only to slightly better effect. "I know where I am. Why are... _you_ here?"

A most un-elvish snicker. "Ah, that gallows humor. I can do nothing to guarantee our Prince's right thinking, my lords, no one ever could. But I can vouch for his, shall we say, _relative_ health. He should be well enough to carry on a conversation now."

Legolas opens his eyes and turns his head in the direction of the other elves with them. The Intelligence Minister Lastor is there, and his thin lips are pressed together grimly even in spite of Maenor's attempts at levity. The War Minister beside him, Brenion, looks similarly grave. Legolas' heart suddenly pounds in his chest, and it feels over-large and caged in there. He can't breathe.

"Is it _adar_?" he asks, fighting to rise again. "Where is he?"

Did something horrible and unthinkable happen to the King? Is that why everything is so strange? Is that why Legolas merits the attentions of no less than _three_ of his father's closest advisers and those amongst the highest ranking elves of their land?

Maenor steps forward and presses him down again, saying quickly - "Legolas, your _adar_ is perfectly well. Not a single hair on his fine head is harmed." He turns to Lastor and Brenion. "And my ministers, before you make the damsel swoon, perhaps you should get on with what you wish to say immediately."

Legolas looks at them imploringly, but for once in their long-running rivalry, Lastor the Intelligence Minister and Brenion the War Minister are giving ground to each other. Legolas struggles up again against Maenor's (by now) half-hearted attempts to keep him lying down. The healer knows him well and understands there is probably little he can do to stop the determined Prince once he sets his mind on something.

"Either help me my lord," Legolas growls at him, "or keep out of my way." He softens it with imploring eyes. "I know which I prefer. Only you will know how to do it best."

Maenor raises his eyes up to the Valar in consternation. He shifts his grip accordingly, this time to help Legolas sit rather than stay down. "Yes, yes," he grumbles all the while, "I am the only one who knows which parts aren't bruised or broken. Few and far between as they are."

Maenor's banter relaxes Legolas as it always does, and in this particular instance gives him a _small_ measure of patience. If Maenor can stand to joke, he can stand to wait for proper news. His father and their kingdom are probably well.

Maenor helps the Prince to sit up and leans him against straightened pillows and the headboard at his back. The two other ministers slink back onto chairs situated around Legolas' bed. The Prince realizes they had been at vigil with him.

They have been watching him sleep...

Legolas frowns and presses a hand to the side of his head. He has no specific recollection of what had brought him here to his rooms in this condition, commanding the attention of his father's most senior advisors. He is dizzy and nauseous and he supposes he must have suffered a concussion if he cannot recall anything, but his scant memories from the last mission do not seem to support the theory -

 _There was an elven woman, a lady._

 _Her face was hidden beneath her grimed hair and her clothes were brutally torn. She was bruised and bloodied and beaten, obviously tortured and, and,_ worse _._

 _She was found in a cave, turned to her side, facing away from the world and instead toward the unforgiving, jagged rocks. Her slim, pale white, limp limbs were splayed about. She looked like a puppet with its strings cut, an image exacerbated by the lines of rope on her wrists, on her ankles, on her long, slim, swan-like neck._

 _For whatever reason the sight of her bare, once-delicate feet were especially striking for him. Her nails had been pulled off. Her soles were burnt. Her toes were broken._

 _She had lost her elven glow in her dank prison, and even when her rescue party had drawn her out beneath the sunny skies, it was clear to all that her light had dimmed._

\- Legolas gasps, seeing the images unfold in quick flashes in his mind's eye. He blinks as if to clear his vision, even as he knows that it is his memory that is damaged, not his sight.

 _In one image her hair was a cascading near-silver. In another image, it was richer and darker, restrained in small, tightly coiled braids on the sides of her head._

 _In one image she had the fine, shimmering robes of a Noldorin noblewoman. In another image, she was wearing the leathers and deep greens of a Silvan warrior-queen._

 _In one image she was the Lady of Imladris. In the next image she was..._

 _Naneth_.

 _In one image she was pulled from her torture prison alive. Barely, but alive. In the next image she was…_

 _Nana..._

He cannot get a decent breath and the world tilts, and he feels sick, sick, _sick_ to his stomach. He presses a fist to his mouth and turns away from the older elves watching him with increasing alarm.

"You said he was well!" protests Lastor.

"My precise words," Maenor murmurs as he sits beside Legolas upon the bed and holds the younger elf's head in his gentle, ministering hands, "were that he was well _enough_."

Legolas lets himself be tended. The healer's thick thumbs presses to the sides of his heath soothingly. He feels like a bewildered child, ill, confused, _lost_. He and Maenor are long used to each other; he is a soldier and a constant if unwilling visitor to the healer's wards. But never before has he let himself be held like this. He closes his eyes in shame and inextricable need. If he can just gather his bearings, if he can just understand what is happening, he will better be able to care for himself. He takes one deep breath after another as he gathers his scattered thoughts.

"Lady Celebrian," Legolas gasps out.

"Ah, see?" says Maenor. "He knows where he is or perhaps more precisely, _when_ he is. Am I correct, _hir-nin_?"

Legolas looks up at Maenor blearily. "I was on the southwestern detail," he says slowly, remembering his most recent assignment as one of Lastor's elite messenger-spies, scattered about Middle-Earth in small groups in service of their Kingdom's intelligence-gathering.

"We noticed unusual activity in the bounds of Lothlorien and Imladris," he continues. "Very lean, very fast units assembled and mobilized in the quickest possible time. We believed it could yield important information for our Realm so we investigated further. What we discovered led us to offer our services to our kin."

He takes a deep, shaky breath before continuing, "The traveling party of the Lady of Imladris - Lady Celebrian - was accosted by orcs and her entourage murdered and left on the roads a few days past. She herself was missing and believed held in captivity."

Lastor nods encouragingly. "Yes, yes. This we know from your earlier report. Proceed with what else you recall, Captain."

Legolas frowns. He'd done a report? The memory escapes him but he continues on, hoping he would get some illumination the further they went in the discussion.

"Their forces were very small," Legolas continues. "Meant both for stealth I think, as well as for the fastest possible response to the situation. Lady Celebrian's sons were among them and led the Imladris group - Lords Elladan and Elrohir. They were distraught, anyone would be, and eager to act. They were apprehensive from our interruption but grateful for the aid. I've met them a few times before but they barely realized who we were, I think.

"At any rate, by their emotional proximity to the situation," Legolas continues, "they wisely yielded field command of the joint forces to the Lothlorien Marchwarden, Haldir. Our own group – myself and two other elves from home, lent ourselves to the same structure."

"That was the right thing to do," Brenion, the War Minister, murmurs approvingly.

"The Imladris scout was best at navigating the mountains," Legolas relays, "and he made quick work off-path to what looked to be an orc base. He heard the foul beasts talking about the Lady Celebrian, saw them fighting over, over some of her effects. Amongst them," he swallows thickly, "thick strands of her hair and, and her smallclothes. It was how we knew the Lady was kept there, but the scout could not know her precise location within the base without revealing himself.

"We broke into small groups," Legolas continues, "each one carrying a member of the Imladris, Lothlorien and Eryn Galen parties; the better with which to signal and coordinate with each other. The Imladris twins were separated. They liked it not, but they couldn't risk being in the same group in case of capture. It would have been a boon to the enemy, if both of the Lord Elrond's sons were captured on top of having already captured his lady wife."

He closes his eyes. "It was our group – I was assigned with Haldir, Elrohir and a handful of other elves from both their homes – who found her. Elrohir, having been trained by his father in some of the healing arts, gave her field treatment but there was little else he could do with what torture that had been inflicted on her.

"He carried her out of there but she struggled the whole way. She... she started screaming. She... she did not even know she was being held by her own son. Elrohir could not, he could not silence her. He knew how, I think, but would not do it. Neither would the others of Imladris and Lothlorien as she was their lady and deferred to Elrohir. It was quickly clear that it had to be me."

He taps, almost absently at a nerve upon the neck, indicating how he had rendered her unconscious enough for a more or less quiet escape.

"She fell unconscious," Legolas says softly, "and it bought us some time for stealth in our escape, though I think I bought myself some of Elrohir's ire. But the Marchwarden looked grateful, so I suppose it was the right thing to do. We spirited her away from there and signaled for the rest of our group to make a hasty exit, but one of them had been spotted and engaged the enemy. The entire base soon stirred with the knowledge of our presence and the loss of their prize. We evaded more than engaged, we knew our small group was outnumbered and so our priority was escape.

"I reunited with my Eryn Galen party," Legolas says, "we held the rear. The Imladris elves rode hard for their home, where their lady could be quickly tended. The Lothlorien group held the rear with us but as soon as it was clear the danger had gone, they followed after the Imladris party to give them armed escort. We were invited to join, but decided to ride for here instead. The intelligence we carried was vital, I thought."

Brenion nods in agreement. "It is. The existence of a hidden orc base of that complexity near such a well-trodden passage over the mountains carries dangers for many. We initiated talks on a concentrated effort with our kin from the Golden Wood and the Hidden Valley to empty and destroy it. Furthermore, the brazen capture of so important and well-protected a figure as the Lady Celebrian is... well, almost unprecedented."

Legolas winces. _Almost_ unprecedented...

"Furthermore," says Lastor, "The orc can be extremely gratuitous with violence. But to go beyond short-term thinking and to keep her alive for so long in the condition she was in, gives us much to think on. Was she tortured for sport or for information? The former is in keeping with conventional beliefs on how we understand these monsters. But if she were hurt for information, it means they are driven by a greater intelligence, discipline and organization than what we usually credit them for. Something could be afoot."

Legolas shivers, and Maenor catches it with a critical eye. The healer tugs up at the twisted, wrinkled blankets on the bed and settles them higher up on his patient's body. Legolas looks at him with a kind of miserable gratitude.

"You mentioned I've reported all of this before?" the Prince asks Lastor.

The Intelligence Minister nods. He draws out several sheets of papers and lays them on the bed, beside Legolas' hand.

"What exactly did you find, Legolas?" he asks carefully, "What did you see when you came upon the Lady Celebrian?"

The younger elf's brows furrow together in thought.

"She was lying on the ground," Legolas replies quietly, "turned away from us. She was facing the jagged rock walls of her prison. Her face was obscured by her silvery hair, rendered almost unrecognizable by blood, mud and grime. She wasn't moving. We weren't sure she was alive. Her clothes – shining robes of a noblewoman – were soiled and torn. There were marks of torture and, and brutalization."

"What precisely do you recall of her injuries?" Lastor asks.

Legolas shakes his head in frustration and dismay. "It was dark, I did not see much."

"I implore you to try, Captain," Brenion says, and the invocation of Legolas' military title is deliberate. The minister knows it is more commanding but also grounding. It pushes a soldier to do his duty, even if his heart finds pain in doing so.

"There were rope burns on her neck," Legolas reports. "I remember from when I held her there to quiet her. I saw similar marks on her wrists and ankles. She was bruised almost everywhere that one could see, with small cuts all over. Blood ran down her legs. They hurt her everywhere we could see, and likely where we could not. Yet they spared her face. It was strangely horrifying, that they had spared it so completely. It wasn't even grimed. I remember thinking – perhaps they had enjoyed looking upon her whenever they hurt her. She was very beautiful." He shivers again and this time it does not abate. He trembles helplessly, and Maenor clucks his tongue in dismay at Lastor and Brenion disapprovingly.

"We do not mean to distress you when you are still ill, Legolas," Brenion says earnestly. "But there is something you need to know, and something we must all act upon sooner rather than later."

Lastor places his hands over the papers on the bed. "These are written records of your debriefing, Legolas. Of the things you reported to the council when you came back from Lady Celebrian's rescue. You and the soldiers you were with were debriefed separately as per custom, to preserve the independence and integrity of the individual information you all carried in your memories."

Legolas frowns but try as he might, all memory of standing in front of Lastor, Brenion, the other council members and _good gods_ , likely his father the King too, escape him. He has no memory of standing before them and speaking.

"Here you said the elven lady you found had darker hair," Lastor says quietly, "wearing the forest colors and leathers of a warrior."

Legolas' world tilts again, and he clutches at the sheets desperately for some purchase. "But, but why would I say that when it is not true!"

Lastor nods gravely. "You were debriefed first, and then promptly dismissed for rest. You looked dead on your feet then, but seemed otherwise unharmed. We quickly realized this was not the case when your other companions were debriefed after you, and your information was accurate and aligned in everything they said until we came upon the description of the rescued Lady."

"I do not know what any of this means," Legolas says shakily, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Lastor presses his lips together and looks to Brenion to continue. The War Minister, who is also Thranduil's longest friend, nods in acceptance of the burden.

"Legolas," he says carefully, "You were very ill when you made that report. The discrepancy in the information you provided was quickly noted, and someone was sent to your chambers to make clarifications with you. You were found unconscious, with a blistering fever. You had an injury to your side, a minor graze apparently negligible for a warrior used to such things as you. Or perhaps the rescue of Lady Celebrian weighed heavily upon you and you were distracted. Either way, it was poisoned, untreated, and had spread and festered. You were not of your soundest mind when you made the report days ago, to say the least. But what you did tell us... what you managed to say did not necessarily come from thin air."

Brenion takes a deep breath. "We think you are beginning to remember what happened to your mo-our Queen," he corrects quickly, "when you were both captured and held prisoner in Gundabad all those years ago."

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	2. Traces of You

**hello** **everyone!**

anyone up for a weekend update? ;) i was going to wait until later, but i'm in one of those moods, lol...

first off, **thanks to all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed the first chapter of this tale** :) It is my 70th piece on fanfiction . net and I wanted to go bolder than my usual. I'm taking some risks that terrify me so I am grateful for your shared thoughts :)

Indeed, if I learned anything from writing 70 pieces on this site over the course of well over a decade - more than anything we are a community here. What this means for me is that though there are a few bad apples who could be unkind, it is mostly a safe place that gives room for both writers to grow in their craft and readers to grow in their tastes and perspectives. We dare each other to be better and to try new things. This is a safe place, and one built on generosity because we share our passions, we share our talents, we share our thoughts, we share our time.

Thank you friends for the solace this site provides and always, for giving me and others like me the courage to put our thoughts to paper and try new things.

As always, C&C's are treasured only if you are able to spare them. Mostly I hope you have as much fun reading as I am having fun writing. All the best!

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 **2: Traces of You**

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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 _"_ _It wasn't so long ago – years barely a handful, really – that Legolas started training in earnest," Thranduil murmured. "and yet he is doing remarkably well, do you not think so?"_

 _He asked it of his wife, the Queen. His tone was flat, but his eyes crinkled with fondness. She, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied by her thoughts. He wished to coax them out and tried to do so with both levity, and a topic that he knew would rile her into engagement._

 _"_ _Do you think it is possible they are humoring us and letting him win everything?"_

 _Even after all their time together, she was not very good at going along with his subtle yarns, delivered as they were in blasé, courtly,_ Sindar _fashion._

 _"_ _Accuse your own kin of that politicking nonsense," she told him darkly, "but I would ask you to spare my people. We would never let him win a contest just because he is Thranduil's son. And besides - Legolas did not win everything."_

 _The Prince of Eryn Galen overheard the tail-end of his parents' hushed conversation as he turned to enter the royal family's private quarters._

 _"_ _Blast it, elfling!" exclaimed his mother, who tended to startle like a Silvan (that is, with a raised knife). "The one thing – the one thing! - you had to inherit from me was that stealth of yours!"_

 _He smiled at her uncertainly, and looked inquiringly upon his father. Thranduil, however, was turned toward the fiery warrior-queen with mild amusement._

 _"_ _What have I done to displease the Queen?" Legolas asked, only half-jesting._

 _The three royals had come from a minor event in the kingdom's Yen War Games, held once every 144 years to coincide with the_ Alaglach _– the Feast of Rushing Flame. During the_ Alaglach _, the sky burst with the light of thousands of shooting stars. The most anticipated event in the Games was when the kingdom's military captains participated in a series of stepladder contests simulating battle conditions. But there were also several minor competitive events held around it for novices who had not yet reached their majority – the Prince Legolas among them in this particular instance, for was not quite 50 years yet._

 _"_ _You did not win everything apparently," Thranduil replied mildly. It irked the competitive, young Sindarin prince nonetheless, and his brow quirked in betrayal of this emotion. He was not yet as good as his father at pretending to be unflappable, though the gods knew how hard he tried._

 _"_ _I've won in hand-to-hand combat, horse racing, free-style fighting, swimming and even set a record for archery," he replied. "My friends and I have also just triumphed at the regatta,_ naneth _." It was from the riverbanks that they had actually just come. "Ranking second in the sword-fighting competition is disappointing I agree, and for that I apologize. But I will do better-"_

 _The warrior-queen cut off her son with a raised hand. "It is not with your solitary loss that I am saddened, son." She muttered something in the deepest of her Silvan dialect, a language Legolas picked up only about two-thirds of. He understood it well enough, but could not boast of speaking it eloquently._

 _"_ _You could be awful and I would be happy just to see you try your best," she said, shifting her language to Sindarin. "What I find inexcusable is that you insist on using a long sword when you could be better with a pair of knives. I am disappointed that you would rather lose with a sword than win with a knife. You are trying so hard to be him," she jerked her head at the sword-carrying King who looked unbothered, "that sometimes you carry no trace of me."_

 _She after all, carried a pair of twin white knives on her back. Almost always, she had them. Legolas always found the weapons too delicate, and perhaps he was trying to be like his father but then again, almost all of the soldiers – Sindar and Silvan alike - carried swords instead of knives. Especially the proper, higher-ranking officer types he hoped one day to become._

 _"_ _Is_ aran-nin _really so bad to emulate?" Legolas kidded, attempting to tame her roiling fire._

 _"_ _Your built is like mine," the Queen insisted. "You have lighter bones, lighter feet, a subtler strength. You are tailor-made for this forest, and can stand upon branches without stirring a single leaf. These light knives will sing in your hands,_ ion _, especially if you learn how to use them from your grandfather."_

 _Legolas winced. There was the long-dead Oropher of legend, his father's father, whom Legolas never had the honor to meet. Then there was that ornery, subsisting Silvan who had sired his stern but loving_ naneth _, whom he met (by mutual preference) on very few occasions._

Grandfather _, as Legolas called him, suffered nothing of the Eryn Galen court and was unimpressed by the Sindar (his son-in-law the King Thranduil very much included). Thus, he stayed away from the stronghold and royal home. He lived in a small settlement community on the far northwest of the Wood, the same home he always had, even after his daughter became Thranduil's wife and so, the Queen._ Grandfather _spoke only in an especially flowery and archaic Silvan dialect, though Legolas suspected he understood Sindarin and even Westron perfectly, except he refused to bother._

 _The old Silvan kept a rugged home among ageless oaks not far from the foot of the Grey Mountains. Winters were frigid there and ran particularly dry and long – a tough survival situation for any Wood-elf, especially for forest farmers like Legolas'_ Grandfather _. But he always claimed he could make anything grow at any time. Avalanches happened in particularly snowy conditions, and warmer weather was sometimes ushered in by a thaw that swelled the river and caused flash floods. It was an altogether untamed place._

 _The warrior-queen sighed into her son's uncertain silence. Legolas did not know what precisely she wanted from him, and she was unsure herself._

 _"_ _Forgive me, Legolas," she said. "I am proud of your accomplishments, I truly am. I have a yearning for home perhaps. Too long cooped up here in your father's veritable pile of rocks surrounded by the Sindar and their politics and I am losing my mind."_

 _Thranduil shook his head at his wife in amusement, and Legolas gave his mother a small smile. He was still slightly confused, but like his father he indulged her_ exotic _outbursts. The Queen was a passionate Silvan with very strong opinions she did not like (or perhaps had no capacity for) keeping to herself. She did not play courtly games and preferred saying what she meant and meaning whatever she said. Sometimes she was right and sometimes she was wrong but she was always straightforward. She was thankfully as quick to apologize as she was quick to retort._

 _"_ _I think I will leave you two to revel in your victories, Legolas. I have been a poor companion." She pressed a reckless kiss somewhere between Legolas' ear and almost poked his eye –they were the same height now and his speedy growth towards adulthood was not something she found easy to navigate, and she had never been particularly good at affection to begin with. But she gave a gentler, more expert one upon her husband's cheek. They have been together since early in the Second Age, after all._

 _"_ _No_ nana _," Legolas protested, "please stay."_

 _"_ _I must see Galion about the preparations for tonight's feast at any rate," she said. "He could be so indulgent and prone to waste in happy occasions."_

 _She left in a flurry of leathers and skirts and in wide, purposeful strides. For a long moment, Legolas and Thranduil just watched her go. The warrior-queen was like a force of nature, and neither of them envied Galion her critical eye and imminent storm._

 _"_ _I hope he is ready with his accounting figures," Legolas joked._

 _Thranduil smiled. "He almost always is."_

 _"_ _I didn't do too badly in the swords, did I,_ adar _?" Legolas asked. "And I am learning and improving still."_

 _"_ _I think the Queen's concerns about you are of shall we say, a more profound nature," Thranduil murmured thoughtfully. "Of late she has been feeling as if the song of the forest is discordant. That something stirs within that obscures things from her. You know how these Silvans could be with the trees. She does not know if it is because the forest is changing or if she is, 'cooped up' here as she has been with us. She thinks some time in her father's house can help her reclaim that connection or at least understand what is happening."_

 _"_ _She means to go away for a while," Legolas deduced. He bit his lip in thought, suddenly realizing where the conversation was leading. He grimaced. "She means to take me with her."_

 _Thranduil shrugged. "That wood-elf of mine takes such pride in her roots, as you know. I believe it is a sentiment she is hoping to share with you."_

 _Legolas looked at his father with a suddenly thunderous expression, barely veiled. He was his mother's son too. "Do you agree with her? That I have no trace of her and am not 'Silvan' enough? And so how is it that in your vaunted circles I am also not quite 'Sindar' enough either? Which is it?"_

 _"_ _Your quarrel is not with me, princeling," Thranduil said flatly, with a slight warning the young royal could not have missed. It surprised the Elvenking that his son was cognizant of the occasional whisper and resentment amongst their peers that the heir to the kingdom was not fully of the Sindar. It was a discussion for a different day, however._

 _"_ _I have no qualms about your choices in weaponry, in language, in friendships," Thranduil said. "You do everything appropriately – dare I say even perfectly – for a Sindarin prince, vile whispers of your mixed heritage aside. Small minds will think their small thoughts, Legolas, always remember that. But the Queen is not wrong in desiring to see more of her Silvan heritage in her own son. She is your mother. She has equal claim to you as I. Go with her to her father's house or not, that is your decision. I will not command you and so save your quarrel for elsewhere. You are certainly old enough to make your own choices. But I expect you to understand what all of this means to her."_

 _Legolas sighed. It was such well-constructed emotional blackmail, wasn't it?_ The decision is yours, but know that you will hurt her if you decline... _His father was not King for nothing. Thranduil always knew how to get what he wanted, whether it be by the end of a blade or a turn of the phrase._

 _"_ Nana _is so very strange sometimes," Legolas said quietly. "I do not know what the difference is, really, if I should be one or the other or both. I am just... what I am. But what you are asking me to consider is not unreasonable. A season or two with her in_ Grandfather's _homestead," he gulped, "is not entirely unbearable."_

 _"_ _You will go with her of your own will?"_

 _"_ _I will consider it."_

 _Thranduil favored him with a beatific smile, because he knew he'd already won even if Legolas was still unprepared to say it._

 _"_ _I don't know why I should bother," said the younger elf. "You yourself don't have the highest opinion of Silvan ways I must note,_ aran-nin _. Why you should wish for me to appropriate some of their customs is beyond me."_

 _"_ _I have the highest opinion of_ that _Silvan elf," Thranduil corrected his son fondly, in reference to his warrior-Queen. "From the day I met her I knew I would happily lay the finest jewels of the world at her feet, but she is insistent that nothing of the sort would impress her."_

 _"_ _Maybe you need a better jewel," Legolas joked._

 _"_ _We shall see," Thranduil said vaguely. His features brightened in memory. "Do you know,_ ion-nin _, that I met your mother at a War Games, not unlike this one?"_

 _Legolas did know it, but knew his father liked telling it again._

 _"_ _The best warriors in our Woods came from far and wide," Thranduil shared. "She was – is – beautiful but she stood out amongst the multitude because she fought so differently and looked like she was only dancing. Except higher and higher up the rankings she went, winning everything until she faced me. She won my heart when she fought with everything she had. She drew first blood, too."_

 _"_ _You fell for_ naneth _because she tried to kill you," Legolas smirked. "And how did you, unattractive Sindar prince that you almost certainly were, win her over? The Queen harbors not the best opinion of us either."_

 _"_ _I bested her," Thranduil said with a glint in his eye. "I had to defeat her you see, and soundly too. Otherwise she would not have found me worthy of her time."_

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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#

"It's been a long time...her death and what you both suffered there is not something anyone wishes to revisit," the War Minister Brenion tells the ailing elven prince before him, "but we believe you have unexplored memories of what happened from when you were both captured and held prisoner."

"I recall n-n-nothing m-m-material of those d-days," Legolas stammers through chattering teeth. "I was young and ill and out of m-my mind h-half of the time and everything I knew I m-mentioned. I withheld n-nothing." His head is pounding, and he can hear his harsh breaths and fast, thunderous heartbeats in his muffled ears.

"We are aware of that," Brenion says earnestly. "We recall very much the grave condition in which you were restored to us, all those years ago. Your young age, your royal status, the fact that you were not yet a soldier, the severity of the injuries inflicted on you, the grief you and your father bore – all these protected you from a more intensive debriefing. But we believe this is something we can do now."

"But I recall n-nothing m-more!"

"Sometimes even the barest snatches of images, sounds and feelings help to form a more concrete picture of events," Lastor explains. "You were barely of age when you were imprisoned, you might not have known the relevance of what you witnessed. If you speak to us of whatever you remember, no matter how small a detail, it could help us come to a better understanding of what happened."

"But what g-good does it d-do anyone," Legolas asks mournfully, "what good does it do anyone, dredging up all the horrible p-past?"

Brenion bites his lip in consideration. "We do not ask this lightly, Legolas. There is a military reason for our inquiry."

Lastor nods. "If we consider the recent capture and torture of Lady Celebrian as an emergent tactic of the enemy, we need to prepare our soldiers for the possibility of imprisonment. They need to know what to expect, how to resist giving away vital information, and how to survive if possible. And of all the elves in all of Arda, there is only one left fit enough to speak from experience of what happens when one falls into the hands of the orc – you."

"Furthermore," adds Brenion gravely, "we need whatever information you have to properly determine the motives behind your capture. Were you being held for ransom and if so, in exchange for what? Or were you being held for sport until a long, slow death with no further intentions? Back then we mourned our Queen and barely got our Prince back alive. We all struggled to move forward. Now we can take a larger view – now we _must_ take a larger view, because the recent attack on Celebrian shows us this is still a significant danger. This is particularly true in your case, because your duties take you outside the stronghold frequently, Legolas. We must be able to formulate a military response in case you too are targeted. This will have repercussions on the kinds of duties you are assigned and where, and what strategies we can pursue in case you are captured."

"If you are held for ransom," Lastor elaborates in a flat tone, "we have to decide if our inclination is toward non-negotiation and a stealth retrieval, or to give in. If we are to give in to the orcs' demands, to what extent? If you on the other hand are held for sport until a slow, agonizing death – would it be better to encourage suicide upon impending capture? Is this something we must advocate amongst our other soldiers too? The implications of whatever information you can provide will range far and wide, my lord.

"You are a soldier now," Lastor continues. "And one gifted at gathering and understanding vital intelligence, too. It is perhaps with these more seasoned eyes that you can finally look back upon those dark days, and turn them into a strength rather than just a foul memory. Make the information an asset with which to arm our warriors."

Legolas takes a deep, shaky breath and rubs his hands over his eyes. He feels profoundly weary. He feels inadequate. He feels perilously close to shameful tears. He feels shame. He feels unprepared.

He also feels brewing anger.

He is physically ill and factually, objectively weakened. He is being unfairly ambushed for answers by three older and militarily more senior elves, knocking on the doors of memories long shuttered, monsters kept in the airless dark. The gods know what's become of them, how these memories may have fed and fattened and become larger and stronger and more malevolent over time.

He feels deep sorrow for even the barest snatches of the memories of what had happened to his mother. They live in a pit in his stomach with unknown depths. They lived in a dark, unmapped corner of his mind. Her loss and the circumstances of it are always with him, always too near. One misstep and he falls into the abyss. One stray thought and he is consumed. They dare ask him to go there?

Her death has become such a pain that he can never even think of their happy memories together, because even these things were inextricably bound by the loss of them, by the death of her. The oh-so- very brutal death of her...

He can feel himself shaking more violently, quaking, in illness or fear or anger or all of them all at once.

 _But you are a soldier now_ , he tries to tell himself in an effort to find some hidden reserve of strength, _You are a soldier now..._

"Speaking from another perspective," Maenor the Health Minister opens tentatively. His hesitation catches Legolas by surprise and so the Prince, as well as the other two Ministers with them, turn to him curiously.

"You've been brought to my halls in all states of awareness or lack thereof, _hir-nin_ ," says Maenor. "Your fever dreams I've been privy to since you became a soldier frequently subject to my care. I've heard you in disoriented mutterings and desperate ranting."

Legolas' brows rise in surprise. He did not know he sometimes makes for a noisy patient, but he's been an occupant in the healing halls often enough to have heard even the toughest of soldiers cry out in their agonies. It is perhaps conceit that he thought himself stoic and exempt.

"Sometimes your words made sense to me," Maenor says, "like in the cases when you ranted and raved of the missions you were recently in. You called out orders, called for fallen friends. But other times you called for _her_ – for our Queen. And other times you spoke of phantom pains and events that were not there or at least, not there _anymore_. I understand now... you were remembering a different place and a different time, even if you did not know it. Maybe you need to speak of what happened, too. Maybe you need to face this. For your own sanity."

Legolas looks at each of the three imploring faces. Lastor looking for intelligence information. Brenion trying to determine a military course of action. Maenor wanting to heal him. They were all there for all their respective duties.

He feels his anger fade. He feels his body settle.

"I do not know how I can help in this," he says softly. "I've spoken of everything I know. I do not even know what else I can recall or speak of..." he remembers something, suddenly.

"What does father think of all this?"

Brenion and Lastor visibly wince.

"Clearly he is unaware of our miserable little conspiracy," Maenor says wryly.

"You know how he is," Brenion says of his old friend, and it is really unbecoming of a War Minister but he shifts uneasily in his seat. "It is easier to apologize than to ask permission."

"As you can imagine," adds Lastor, "like you, news of Lady Celebrian's torture has unearthed distressing memories for him. It became worse when we found you collapsed and unresponsive in your rooms."

"You were rushed to the healing halls," Maenor says gently, "your _adar_ followed quickly once informed of the condition you were in." He bit his lip uneasily before continuing. "You were fevered as was earlier said... but... soon ranting and raving too. You were calling for her."

Legolas' barely restrains a pained grimace. He was screaming for his dead _naneth_ in the healing wards, with his father there. With healing staff and hurting soldiers in hearing range. It really was conceited of him, to have ever believed himself exempt from succumbing to suffering as he has seen others succumb.

"We worked to ease you," Maenor continues, "and as soon as you were somewhat recovered, your _adar_ promptly ordered your transfer to the privacy of your own rooms away from the eyes and ears of others. He also strictly barred visitors and unnecessary personnel. I was to care for you personally."

Legolas rubs at his eyes wearily, as if he could rub away his torment, his embarrassment, and the torment and embarrassment he spread by his fevered ranting.

"I'm sorry."

Maenor reaches for his hands and places them down so that he may be looked upon. "I would have done so either way." He clears his throat. "And so as I have said earlier - maybe you need to speak of what happened, too. For yourself and these burdens you carry."

"So _Adar_ doesn't know you are here for this purpose," Legolas says slowly, thoughtfully.

"Yes," Lastor says. "He made sure you were well-looked after and away from danger first, but then retired to his own company, lost in his own thoughts. He is in his office, elbow-deep in paperwork and Dor-winion."

Legolas nods in understanding. It is just as well that his father is not here if he is to recall more of what happened to his _naneth_. He's already put the King through enough.

He himself would leave if he could.

"He is not to be disturbed," Lastor continues, "not that we are eager to ask him for permission to harass his injured son for information. But this needs doing, and so here we are."

"I will cooperate my lords," Legolas says carefully. "I understand this is a matter of duty. But as I told you, I do not quite know how."

"I may be able to help," Maenor says carefully. "I am of the belief that buried memories can be reclaimed when the sufferer returns to the states he had previously endured. In your case... years ago you were pulled from Gundabad in the throes of a raging fever. And in my years of experience treating you since you became a soldier, it is indeed whenever you fell in a similar state of illness that the dreams, the brutal memories, tend to make a reappearance.

"You are currently on heavy doses of fever and pain reducers," Maenor goes on, "If you let me, I will modify the regimen and lower the dose. You will consequently feel disorientation and distress. The fever will return, so will the pain from your poisoned and infected injury. In this state, you may be able to return to the place of your memories. I will not mince words – you will certainly hurt. But under my care, I can also guarantee that you will not be in mortal danger."

Maenor looks pointedly at the Intelligence and War Ministers in his company. "But if Legolas should even come within a hairsbreadth of hazard, I will exercise my professional judgment in restoring whatever treatment I see fit, even if it should deprive you of the information you seek."

"We expect nothing less of you my lord," says Brenion.

"We are all agreed. What say you, Captain?" Lastor asks Legolas.

"I will do what I can," the Prince promises. His voice is thin and it wavers, but his eyes blaze in determination. What did Lastor say? _Turn the dark memories into an asset, turn them into information with which to arm their soldiers..._

Maenor nods in satisfaction. "Very well. You are still under the soothing effects of the last dose, Legolas. I suggest you find what rest you can and gain some strength." He gives his charge some water to drink, then assists the Prince back to lying down.

The healer fusses with the blankets as he speaks, "In the next few hours, your rally will wane. You are still unwell and we expect that without the proper treatment, the pain will return and the fever will rise. We will see what you can remember then."

Legolas settles into his pillows and closes his eyes, hoping the three Ministers would leave him be for a moment. He opens one eye and then the other, to find them nestling into their chairs around his bed.

"There is no rest to be found with you three hovering there my lords," he grumbles miserably at his elders.

"That is not an unfair request, _ernil_ ," Maenor concedes with a dry laugh. "But you should know better than to expect to be left completely alone in your condition."

He rises from his seat and starts dragging the piece of furniture away from the bed and toward Legolas' desk in another end of the room. The two other ministers follow suit.

"We shall stay here," says the wily healer, "and partake of your dinner."

Legolas groans, but carefully turns away from the lot of them and covers his head with a pillow. He wishes he could be outside instead, where there is air and starlight. The stars remind him of how small he and his troubles are in the larger scheme of the world.

Oh how he wished for stars.

#

# # #

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _Thousands of stars, for hours and hours shooting across the sky... The elves of Eryn Galen delighted in the phenomena celebrated by the_ Alaglach _. They marked the event with rowdy and fiercely competitive war games in the day but ended it with a quiet, community feast on the banks of the Forest River at night._

 _The water was tree-lined, but along its considerable length, there were patches of sandy riverbank and outcroppings of flat-topped rock that were unobscured by the thick canopy of branches and leaves that otherwise dominated their proud forest. On these spaces along the water, one could readily look up and watch the shooting stars._

 _The elves would spread out blankets and cushions in these spaces, and sit in small groups of families and friends to watch the phenomenon above them. In areas where the waters of the river were still, the shooting stars were also reflected on the surface such that there were stars to see up in the skies and on the water itself._

 _There was quiet, good-natured chatter and soft music. There was food to be shared and always,_ always _, excellent drink from the King's own stores for sharing in the community._

 _The royal family – Thranduil, his Queen and his young son - walked among their people, sharing in felicitations and tales of the exciting day that had transpired. They also toasted the gods, who had blessed them with the thousands of stars that blazed in the skies._

 _It was not a formal event, and one of the few social duties the Queen enjoyed fully because after the three royals finished mingling, they were able to comfortably settle in and watch the stars with their closest friends._

 _Legolas stretched out on lush furs with his fellow young nobles, all these elves of roughly the same age and status as he. He munched idly on pieces of bread as he listened half-heartedly to their chatter. He watched his_ naneth _as she settled in amongst her most preferred fellows, a few paces away. They were all Silvan soldiers of course, and there was not a single light head of hair among her circle of friends._

 _Not that he could boast very well of diversity, he reflected. In perfect foil to his mother, there was not a single Silvan amongst his own group._

Except for me _, he thought wryly._ I am the Silvan here, apparently. Such as I am...

 _He asked his father once, how the King Oropher had received the news that his Sindar son and heir had fallen in love and intended to marry a Silvan elf. The world-threatening dangers they faced in that earlier Age had apparently overshadowed whatever reservations Oropher might have had, and Thranduil said there was no resistance to the union his heart desired. It certainly helped that there was also political value in a mixed union. The Sindarin elves were a minority ruling over the majority Silvan population. Though Oropher consolidated power and united the Realm and his leadership had never been contested, a marriage between his son Thranduil and one of the local folk only increased his legitimacy._

But apparently, I am not nearly Silvan enough for _naneth, thought Legolas. He wondered if it was a sentiment shared by the other Silvan elves in their woods. He probably did not help matters by his choice of primary language, or limited set of friends. He pondered spending a season or so in his dour_ Grandfather's _house and winced. If his mother already found him lacking,_ Grandfather _could very well look at him as if he were as strange as a dwarf._

 _He sighed, and let himself be taken from this miserable thought by the mention of the Silvan soldier who had defeated him in sword fighting._

 _"_ _Did you hear that, Thranduilion?" one of his good friends poked him on the ribs, "The delightful Lady Mallossel confided upon Limbes that she is of a mind to lose her maidenhead to that Silvan farmer who left you in the dust today!"_

 _"_ _Lady Mallossel," echoed another one of their companions, "even her name glides upon the tongue. So fine a creature would be such a waste on that farmer. I hope she was only kidding."_

 _"_ _I'm just not sure if she meant to lose her maidenhead to whoever emerged winner in the swordfight," said Limbes with a laugh, "or if she wanted the Silvan farmer on his own merits to begin with. Imagine, Legolas – if you had only triumphed, Mallossel could have set her sights on you instead!"_

 _Legolas was not sour about losing, especially to the superior skills of the rather gentlemanly and previously unknown swordsman who had distinguished himself amongst so many other elves today. The line of conversation amongst his friends was also not so strange – they exchanged irreverent barbs with each other easily, and no one was immune from their sharp tongues, not even himself. He also had little to no care for the attentions of Lady Mallossel, as fine as she admittedly was. But because of his earlier conversation with his parents, thoughts of Silvan farmers led him to his mother's concerns about how he valued his mixed heritage. She, after all, had been farming with_ Grandfather _before she distinguished herself in the War Games and captured the heart of Thranduil._

 _"_ _That Silvan farmer," Legolas snapped, "bested me not only easily, but had also taken pains to let me keep face. His name is Melchanar and everyone sees a bright future for him here."_

 _"_ _Maybe Legolas also intends to give up his maidenhead to this champion!" chortled one of their companions. The jibe was met by a chorus of laughter and it diffused Legolas' irritation. He just rolled his eyes at them and kept his peace. It was all very trifling._

 _But he knew then that he would be going with his mother on her planned trip to the far northwest of their Woods, King's command or no. He would go with_ nana _to the home she missed and yearned for, to_ Grandfather's _untamed forest farm._

 _He did not think he would learn much from them – much less appropriate anything and change himself. But if it made_ naneth _happy, he could stand some time there and besides, he had not been by to visit his_ Grandfather _and pay respect in years._

 _He was resolute in his decision to accompany his mother and would tell his parents so. That did not, however, mean he was happy. From the occasional seasons he spent there, time felt different from how it was in the stronghold. It was agonizingly slow because he was only ever either bored or uneasy._

 _He did not look forward to it at all. He sighed and stretched out on the fur, and looked up at the shooting stars, which made a heavenly ceiling above._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	3. Hostile Territory

**hi guys!**

 **first off, thanks to all who are supporting this fic so far**. RL has been crazy but I thought I should get this out for the weekend. Personalized responses as soon as I can have some time :) Until then - I hope you enjoy the latest installment. Have a great weekend all, and as always, your C&C's are insanely valuable if you can spare them :)

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 **3: Hostile Territory**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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High above, the ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers comes first as a blur then into sharper relief as his eyes focus. Awareness quickly follows.

He takes a deep breath, and releases it in a long exhale that stutters as it pinches and pulls at a stitch on his side... He stills. He understands he is hurt and that moving will make things worse.

He remembers where he is.

He remembers _when_ he is.

Maenor comes into view and instantly reads the awareness in his patient's eyes. Legolas gives him a nod in acknowledgement, which the head of the healing wards returns grimly.

"You are progressing as expected," Maenor says gently. "Your fever is rising again. Legolas..."

The healer looks to his left and right, and it seems they are alone. Where the two other ministers are, Legolas does not know.

"What we are doing here goes against every instinct that I have as a healer, everything I have ever learned and taught of it," Maenor adds, "I am depriving you of proper treatment. I am intentionally letting you worsen. It is uncharted territory for me, and so I will need you to help navigate it. I need you to be very forthcoming with me on how you feel from here on out. Do you understand? So tell me - how do you feel?"

"But I never lie," comes the hoarse response.

"Forthcoming is not synonymous to honest," Maenor points out. "You do not lie, that is true. But you can also be rather evasive – as you've just perfectly illustrated."

In spite of their circumstances – his failing body and aching heart – Legolas' lips quirk in a smile.

"How do you feel?" the healer asks again.

The Prince takes more careful stock of himself. His vision is dim and dull, all sights softened by cloudiness and a sheen of gray. He is too weary to focus. He'd only just woken but he feels ready for sleep again. His limbs feel leaden and he feels no desire to rise, but he does wish to move to find a more suitable position because he feels all manner of uncomfortable. His joints are stiff. His skin is raw. He is overheated.

"Tired," he summarizes as he squirms, scratches, and pulls down at the blankets that covered him up to his neck. "Hot."

"You'd taken a cut on your side," Maenor reminds him. "It is the cause of your troubles. How about that? How does that feel?"

"I think a pinch there woke me when I moved," Legolas guesses. "But I hardly feel it now." He searches for it in his mind, but feels an almost more disturbing, prominent deadness. "My side is numb but...heavy."

Maenor nods. "That is still the work of the medicine. It will fade too, and then a sharper pain. Find whatever rest and strength you can."

He does not have to be told twice.

#

# # #

#

The high, vaulted ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers comes first as a blur then into sharper relief as his eyes focus. Awareness quickly follows.

He takes a deep breath, and releases it in a long exhale that stutters as it pinches and pulls at a stitch on his side... He gasps and rides the roiling wave of sharp, hot pain until it becomes a duller, less encompassing feeling. He stills. He understands he is hurt and that moving will make things worse.

He remembers where he is.

He remembers _when_ he is.

Maenor comes into view and looks down at him with a critical eye.

"I never asked," Legolas says roughly, and he clears his throat to marginally better effect. "I never asked... if you've received word on the Lady Celebrian's condition."

Maenor nods to himself, realizing by Legolas' words that the patient is still in possession of proper thinking.

"You've only been back home three days, _hir-nin_ ," the healer replies. "If Lord Elrond should find it prudent to send us any word, it wouldn't reach us for another week and a half."

"Three days? Seems... longer." Legolas' attention wavers, and he paws at the blanket resting on his chest. His hands are heavy and uncooperative. He grunts in dismay as he tries and fails to release himself from the covers.

"I hope you are not dreaming of rising in the state you are in," Maenor tells him sternly. He places a hand over Legolas' to still them. They are hot, and so he reaches for the younger elf's forehead and is unsurprised to find his temperature had risen yet again.

"I only wish for some relief from this infernal heat," Legolas mutters, shifting and turning until his wound reasserts itself with a vengeance. It flares, a white hot poke at his side that strikes him deep and flowers outwards, eating at his being, absorbing every conscious thought.

He emerges from the sensation shaking violently, and finds Maenor holding him down and looking upon him with a desperate sorrow.

"One word from you and I will cease this madness and give you something to ease your pain," the healer says in a low, strained voice.

But Legolas remembers where he is.

He remembers _when_ he is.

"Don't... lose your nerve just yet, my lord," Legolas tells him wryly. It does not have his usual fire, but it does have his spirit. It courts an uncertain smile from the older elf. "We haven't even started yet."

"You're insufferable."

"I am hot," Legolas corrects him, squirming in his sheets again. "That is what I am. Please release me from these things."

Maenor does as requested and tugs gently at the tangled sheets. He frees Legolas from them, and pulls the blankets away from him. Legolas sighs in relief at the cool air, and he closes his eyes for sleep. He drifts in swirling inky blackness and is more or less comfortable for a time, until he starts feeling cold.

He shivers and briefly contemplates opening his eyes and bothering Maenor to help him again, this time in bringing the previously detested covers back. But he is too weary. He plunges into the black, and hopes he can just forget everything.

#

# # #

#

The high, vaulted ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers comes first as a blur then into sharper relief as his eyes focus. Awareness quickly follows...

... and with it, pain and memory.

But he still remembers where he is.

He still remembers _when_ he is.

Maenor comes into view and looks down at him.

"How do you feel, Legolas?"

"Hot," he replies. "H-how long...?"

"You've been back for three days now remember?" Maenor says gently. "And you've been waking intermittently just these last few hours."

"Seems longer," he manages. His tortured mind aches to spiral away, but there is something about Maenor's worried expression that keeps him tethered to wakefulness.

"You're looking at me that way," Legolas muses aloud, and even though he knows he sounds incoherent, he cannot quite string ordered words to the disordered thoughts in his head. "I will do my part. But when I have done so, I will ask you to do the same."

Maenor frowns in confusion, but there is something else in his gaze, a mounting dread.

"I will also ask you to remember," Legolas murmurs as he closes his eyes. "You were there for some of it after all."

#

# # #

#

The high, vaulted ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers comes to him in a blur, but he still remembers where he is.

He still remembers _when_ he is.

Maenor comes into view and looks down at him.

"How do you feel, Legolas?"

"I'm burning," he gasps, "Good gods, I burn..."

It engulfs him.

"Water," he begs, "water..."

His mind goes before the cup is pressed to his lips.

#

# # #

#

The high, vaulted ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers are lost to him. He opens his eyes and they are jagged rocks...

He jolts awake in alarm, and with wakefulness comes an insistent, blinding pain in his side. But he blinks up at the ceilings and the rocks of his memories of imprisonment were gone. He is reminded where he is. He is reminded, more importantly, that he has been taken away from that dreadful place.

In this way he is almost grateful for the pain, for the salvation of its reminder that the time past was long gone. He rides it willingly, and hovers at the edges of consciousness.

Maenor comes into view, asks him how he feels.

But he has no more words.

#

# # #

#

The high, vaulted ceiling of the Prince's sleeping chambers are gone. He opens his eyes and they are jagged rocks.

He moans in misery.

He realizes he'd never left that place, that it is being saved, being spared, that is the delusion. He's never left. He is still there.

 _I am still here_.

But the realization sends a jolting fire through his veins. If he is still in the prison, then it means -

She _is still alive._

 _The Silvan Warrior-Queen's face came into view._

 _"_ _Nana," he whispered up to her, and he tried to raise his heavy hands to her. He ached very much for her touch, but his limbs were too heavy. She looked down upon him kindly. It was the softest expression he had ever seen on her often stern countenance._

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears another voice. A familiar voice. It is Maenor, his father's Health Minister. He sounds far away. "My lords," he calls to people Legolas cannot not see. "My lords, come. It starts..."

Legolas ignores them in favor of his mother.

 _He tried to reach for her, but his body refused to cooperate._

 _"_ Naneth _..." he moaned._

 _"_ _I am sorry,_ ion-nin _," she said, and her large, warm tears fell like the first drops of spring rain upon his face. "I am so sorry."_

 _She placed her strong, cold hands over his eyes and closed them._

 _She placed her strong, cold hands over his mouth and nose, and pressed down so that he could not breathe._

 _"_ _I am so sorry," she said._

 _He was ailing and weak and he did not think at first that he could move, but when his air was cut off he felt a bucking, unthinking strength take over his body. He kicked, he twisted, he fought. He turned his face away from her iron grip and got as far as "_ Naneth, _what-" before she clamped her hand over his mouth and nose again._

 _"_ _You can let go now,_ ion-nin _, please," the Silvan Queen begged. His body would not listen._

 _"_ Nana _you're hurting m-" he said around her insistent grip._

 _"_ _Let go, now. Let go..."_

And in that distant reality miles and years away, he feels hands on him too, but gentler. And with them is Maenor's voice also begging – "You're all right, Legolas. Hold fast, be still and I promise you, you can breathe."

 _"_ _Let go, my son. It is better this way..." the Silvan Queen said._

"Hold fast and just breathe Legolas," contradicts the healer.

Legolas does not know whom to heed. He is not even sure where he is and when he is.

 _His mother's hands were pried from his face, and she screamed in anguish at what she had failed to do, while their monstrous captors pulled her away from her own son. They dragged her away kicking and screaming and scratching at them, while her son took in one painful, ragged breath after another._

Legolas opens his eyes with a gasp, and he looks around him in a panic. Gone are the jagged rocks. Gone are the monsters. Gone are his mother's cold hands. It is Maenor who is here, as well as Brenion and Lastor. His father's ministers look down at him grimly, eyes worried but faces set in determination.

He is sick, but he is safe. He is home.

And she, _nana_ , she is still very much dead after all.

The realization hits him like a kick in the gut, and he cannot help the keening sob that escapes from his mouth. He turns away from his silent watchers and curls into himself.

"What did you see, Legolas?" Brenion asks softly.

Legolas has no words for it all, not yet. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, and just holds himself for a long moment. He pulls at the tangled blankets around him. He feels overheated, but the misery of it is overridden by a sense of shame and nakedness beneath the three ministers' prying gazes. He wishes to be covered and hidden.

"Captain," calls Lastor in a bid to invoke Legolas' compulsive sense of duty. "What did you see, soldier?"

Legolas struggles with the images and sensations that still linger in his mind. His mother's hand on his mouth and nose, pressing down tight until he could no longer breathe. Her apologies. Her desperate begging for him to let go, let go...

"Captain," Lastor calls again, and in a way, the objectivity of it all lends the ailing archer strength to speak.

The three ministers around him are very different kinds of elves. Maenor, beneath his dry wit and macabre sense of humor, has a true healer's compassion and a soft heart. Brenion the War Minister is bold and bawdy, his father's irreverent and oldest friend, a soldier's soldier through and through. Lastor, least endeared to Legolas but perhaps the elf he works with best, is pragmatic, coldly calculating, and has a ruthless, intellectual curiosity ideal for an Intelligence Minister. In this moment of raw vulnerability, Legolas finds himself most responsive to Lastor's clinical detachment.

"She hurt me," Legolas replies finally. "She hurt me."

"Who?" Maenor asks.

" _Nan_ \- the Queen."

A long moment of silence.

"How?" asks Brenion.

Legolas shuts his eyes tighter and he takes deep breaths. With each one drawn he gathers more and more of his control. "She p-p-p-put her h-h-hand to m-my face. I could not breathe."

"Do you know why?" asks Lastor.

"She said it was better that way," Legolas replies.

"The orcs, did they make her do it?" Lastor asks.

"No," Legolas murmurs, beginning to drift again, "they were the ones who stopped her."

He feels a hand to his forehead, and fingers press against his wrist. He knows them for the soft, flat, adroit digits of Maenor.

"The fever runs high," the healer murmurs, "His heart is working too hard. I will have to make adjustments and give him something to cool him."

#

# # #

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _He was cold._

The Alaglach _, aside from being a star feast, also tended to fall in the time of year between the autumn season and the brutal winter, when the days became shorter and the nights longer. It was not the best time to go to_ Grandfather's homestead _, which was not only closer to the freezing north but also shadowed by the mountains, making it much colder than what he was used to._

 _The Silvan warrior-queen, however, had the eager energies of a child and she glowed for her homecoming, the freezing winter notwithstanding. She had a small smile upon her face as her spirited horse ate the distance between the stronghold of her husband and her father's house. Her enthusiasm and good cheer were contagious, and Legolas knew that he had decided the right thing._

 _His_ naneth _had been eager since Legolas informed her of his intention to join her upcoming trip a few days' past. The only damper on her excitement were the escorts Thranduil had pressed upon them at the last minute. The King had strategically sprung the surprise so as to limit her contestations in her rush to leave. Legolas remembered watching the exchange fondly at the stables. His mother was spoiling for a fight but thankfully more eager to depart._

 _"_ _I am traveling in_ my _forest to_ my _home," she protested at her husband heatedly. "I see no reason for such bother."_

 _The horses were ready, the supplies were ready, and she thought she was already compromising in bringing one female courtier as attendant and one royal guard for herself, and one royal guard for her son._

 _"_ _You've not been down this road home in a while," Thranduil reasoned, "Things may have changed, you've mentioned concerns about this yourself."_

 _"_ _But to travel with a larger party is slower going," she argued, "More supplies to carry, more mouths to feed, more stops for hunting and rest... this means more time on the roads and more exposure to danger. To travel so conspicuously is to court the very hazard it seeks to suppress!"_

 _"_ _You will hardly feel any difference from an additional security escort of five extremely well-suited soldiers," Thranduil said mildly. He was unflappable, and the Silvan Queen knew when her husband would not be moved._

 _"_ _Cut it down to three and you will hear nothing else from me," she snapped. "And they had better not slow me down."_

 _"_ _Done," he said, adding triumphantly because sometimes he could not resist riling her – "I assumed as much and prepared thus at any rate."_

 _She huffed at him, but then pulled him into a long, warm, heartfelt embrace. He pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head. She took a whiff of his hair, she always did whenever she embraced him. Legolas noted she was usually more discreet about it, but then again she was going to be away for months too and was likely to miss him even if she wouldn't say it. She tugged at a fistful of Thranduil's smooth, fragrant, pale gold strands playfully and possessively, which the King (and their horrified son) pretended not to notice. She stepped away from Thranduil and then offered him a low bow. Legolas followed suit, and they rode their horses and cantered away._

 _The Queen looked behind her many times until the stronghold was beyond view, concealed by the thick foliage. Their departure was days' past, and his mother's initial maudlin over leaving her beloved behind had since been taken over by excitement as they came closer to her old home. Legolas, on the other hand, huddled warily in his cloak. The closer they came to the north, the colder and colder it was, even for his elven tolerance._

 _He knew they had reached their destination when his mother slowed their pace, and the armed royal guards subtly herded her and him to a protected center formation. They all felt eyes trailing their movement, and knew a small Silvan watch group were now following their approach warily. This was shortly followed by the drifting sounds and smells of the small community among the trees._

 _The Queen tired of the charade then. She halted her horse, and the party with her perforce followed her lead._

 _"_ _Emerge from the trees, Orthordir!" she commanded._

 _And a lightly built but lethally-clad Silvan warrior did indeed come before them suddenly, as if the very leaves and branches just parted for him. His feet and movements were soundless. This Orthordir had a slight facial resemblance to the Queen, but his hair was darker, an ashy, black cherry in warrior's braids._

 _He walked right up to the Queen while similarly-clad members of his group stepped out of their own hiding places. The royal guards tensed, but let them approach. They were all Silvans of course, and all of age._

 _Orthordir looked up at her and the stern expression they shared softened magnificently when he favored her with a warm smile._

 _"_ _You would greet me from that high horse?" he teased._

 _She laughed, and hopped from her charger and into his waiting arms. They exchanged words in their dialect, while Legolas dismounted his own horse warily. He approached them when she motioned for him to come._

 _"_ _To the Prince of the Woodland Realm," she said irreverently, for the form of address was right as well as the protocol that she should introduce to Legolas a person lower in the social hierarchy, "I present Orthordir. Soldier by former trade, in current service to our tribe as head of the border guard. Also – my brother's bastard."_

 _Legolas winced, for the term carried such heavy and negative connotation in the circles he frequented. He was unsure if his mother was jesting, or if she was being figurative, or if she was being literal. Orthordir caught his confusion and guffawed._

 _"_ _You must shed these scruples of yours while you are here – cousin," Orthordir said genially. "I know how the Sindar could be, I've spent time in the stronghold myself. Here it only means what it is – your late uncle rolled in the hay with my late mother while married to his late wife."_

 _Legolas smiled at him wanly. "It is good to meet you – cousin."_

 _Orthordir grinned and led them forward. The royal guardsmen relaxed and dismounted, and took the reins of the royals' horses as they walked toward the village._

 _"_ _Grandfather is eager to see you," Orthordir shared, "we knew from the song of the trees that a daughter of the northern woods makes her way back home. Your visit is much awaited, Aunt. Yours as well, Legolas." He was either quick to assume familiarity, or unversed in the ways of courtly propriety. He even reached forward and tugged at Legolas' cloak._

 _"_ _I would remove this, however," he teased. "Our grandfather would never let you hear the end of it – Imagine! A northern Silvan looking miserably cold."_

 _Legolas shrugged. If he was cold he was cold, and he suspected nothing much could improve_ Grandfather _'s opinion of him anyway. But he at least lowered the hood of his cloak. He shook his hair free and stalked forward boldly, even if he knew he was headed toward what could be thought of as hostile territory._

 _He was Thranduilion._

 _He was Oropher's grandson._

 _He was the Prince of the Woodland Realm in his own right, young but well-versed in a Sindar court snakepit. An ornery Silvan farmer lording over the back country should theoretically be manageable._

But he made mother _, he thought to himself wryly._ That should give most elves some pause _..._

 _Forward he went nonetheless. Their merry party – the royals and their escorts as well as the community guards that had intercepted them - entered the village together. They were soon swamped by a merry mob of curious children, their parents, and the Queen's friends and immediate and extended family. This comprised the whole village eventually, and they all made their lumbering way toward_ Grandfather's _house._

 _It was an artless, sensible, wooden structure a few flets high, built around the trunk of an unremarkable oak. Every part of it was built by_ Grandfather's _hand, he remembered, and everything had a purpose. The old Silvan after all, was a forest farmer and pragmatic by nature._

 _The large tree upon which his house rested bore nuts. Climbers and vines clung to sections of its branches, some of them holding grapes. On the shade at the sides of the house and the tree were sizeable patches of berries, mushrooms and root vegetables that could thrive without the sun. Nearby were dwarf fruit trees and shrubs with roots that did not run as deeply as that of the oak, and all around them were herbs of various uses._

 _The smell – of leaves, wet grass, mulch, some inevitable rot and the slightly putrid smell of_ Grandfather's _mysterious composts – always brought Legolas back to the visits of his youth. He used to feel fear of the old Silvan and though that has long since gone after several more encounters, he always felt slightly unwelcome._

 _The elf himself stood akimbo at the double doors of his house, waiting for the new arrivals. He had always been very slight, the same height and build as Legolas now, even if the Woodland Prince was not yet in his adulthood. But he was made of powerful muscle, lean and full of bluster. He looked fierce in his red roan hair done in tangled warrior braids, and he had dust and grime on his simple, weathered clothes and his hands, right to inside his fingernails._

 _The Silvan Queen ran to him eagerly, and she gave her father a gesture of love and respect – she lowered her royal head to his dirty hands for a parental blessing. He gave it with a small, tight smile quirking on his otherwise set face._

 _But if the Queen was willing to forego protocol for herself – for even blood relations were bound by them – she was not going to allow it for her son, even if she had to make demands of her father._

 _"_ _To the Prince of the Woodland Realm," she said in a clipped Sindarin, "I present my father."_

 _Legolas met_ Grandfather's _piercing green eyes evenly. The dour Silvan held his gaze for a long defiant moment, before favoring his royal grandson with a small bow. He looked tortured, and Legolas knew it was a concession not to protocol and not to Legolas, but as a favor to his beloved and strong-willed daughter._

 _Legolas took it nevertheless. He acknowledged the bow with a grave nod of his head. The rest of the villagers followed in_ Grandfather _'s example, and he acknowledged them too._

 _With the formality of introductions done with, they could act more familiarly with each other. Legolas did not need to do it, but something compelled him to make his own gesture of respect upon the forest farmer who had sired his mother._

 _"_ Grandfather _," he said gravely, and mimicked how his_ naneth _had offered her head to the elder in humility. He had caught the old Silvan – and the Queen – by surprise. But_ Grandfather _placed his hand over Legolas' pale gold head and murmured blessings upon him. When the young Prince straightened, his_ naneth's _eyes were shining._

Grandfather _raised his hands to their well-wishers for attention. He was quickly indulged by attentive silence. He spoke in their dialect, but Legolas understood by the occasional words he picked up and the cheers met by the announcement that they would be feasting in honor of the guests that night._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	4. The Things That Hurt You

**hi everyone!**

 **first off, thanks to everyone who is following this latest effort of mine, and especially all who take the time to review and let me know what they think.** I am truly grateful... I haven't had the chance to sit down and write out responses, but please be assured that every single review is read, re-read, digested, cherished. Thank you. You help me sail over the writing speed bumps.

Without further ado, the Chapter 4 :) As always, constructive comments and criticism are encouraged. Wishing everyone a lovely weekend and a great holiday season!

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 **# # #**

 **4: The Things That Hurt You**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

 **# # #**

 **#**

It is black as the darkest night, that inky, bottomless shade that is the complete absence of light. It is silent and in it, he is formless.

He is nothing.

He does not know how long he lingers in this emptiness, until the sensation of sharply cold water upon his throat wakes him. He sputters in surprise, but then drinks greedily. He suddenly realizes he feels hot and parched, and every swallow is salvation. When the cup is taken from his lips, he moans in all the very tragic loss of it.

He opens his eyes and finds his head being lowered back down to bed by Brenion. The movement is dizzying, but mostly he is taken in by how worried his father's old friend and War Minister looks. Behind him Legolas can see the healer Maenor, walking away with a cup of water. Standing nearby and looking grave is the Intelligence Minister Lastor, who is devouring him with an unflinching gaze of avid curiosity.

"Has something happened to _adar_?" he asks quietly, though his heart does not seem to be in it. Something stirs at the edges of his mind. His father is well, just not here. He is disoriented, but the memories will return if properly stirred. He knows it, just does not have the patience for it.

"Maenor," Brenion calls out, "he does not remember."

"Give him a moment," the healer says calmly. He'd long been used to Legolas and the other soldiers who are all-too-frequently in and out of his care. "You know how these soldiers of ours can get, Lord Brenion. Waking up hurting all the time and so some days and nights look and feel just like the others. It is why we are here to begin with, after all. I have re-evaluated how much medicine I can give and deprive to help him with his recollections without sacrificing his well-being. He should be a little better now."

Legolas frowns, and let his most recent memories return. His vision wavers and his stomach lurches upon recall.

"What year is it?" Lastor asks, reading the realization in the ailing, younger elf's eyes.

"The Third Age 2509," Legolas murmurs.

"Describe your last mission," the Intelligence Minister orders.

"Intelligence-gathering in the south-west," Legolas replies wearily. "I and a couple of our soldiers found ourselves in a position to assist in the mission to rescue Celebrian, the Lady of Imladris. She'd been captured and tortured by Orcs in the Mountains. She was recovered alive and in physically stable condition though not... not..." he can't quite find the right word, "... not entirely...sound."

"Do you recall why you are here?" Lastor asks.

Legolas swallows at a forming lump in his throat. "Yes."

"Elaborate."

Legolas closes his eyes. "I'd taken an injury." He isn't completely sure where, so he does not bother to go into detail upon that. "My inattention has allowed it to worsen. I understand I am unwell and am confusing the events of Lady Celebrian's capture with those of our Queen from earlier in the age. I understand also that the retrieval of these...misplaced memories... can be useful in improving our intelligence of what happens while in enemy captivity and consequently the formulation of strategy."

"I am sorry for your troubles but you are the only one who can do this, Legolas," says Brenion. "Everyone else is dead or..." he borrows the Prince's words concerning Celebrian, "not entirely sound."

"I will speak of everything I know," Legolas promises as he opens his eyes, and looks upon the ministers determinedly. "I will try my best to remember."

"Even of the things that hurt you," Lastor adds. " _Especially_ of the things that hurt you."

Legolas nods slowly. It makes no difference.

Everything hurts.

Even the happy memories of his mother.

#

# # #

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _His mother happily went in pursuit of her close friends and fed her own son to the wolves so to speak, but that was not unexpected. With a dismissive merry wave, she walked away to help with preparations for the feast and fully expected Legolas to get by on his own._

 _He stood surrounded by curious, lingering Silvans alone for a long moment, the only light head among them, the only Sindar, the only royal, the only one with half-a-grasp of the dialect they all chattered with excitedly around him._

 _He could always fend for himself. His_ adar _and_ naneth _ensured he had exposure to different peoples – he was as present at high level diplomatic functions as he was at the soldiers' quarters, the stables and the scullery. He made friends easily, and was a good worker with a steady pair of hands. What he realized though was that no matter how immersed he was in the workings of his father's kingdom, he was still amongst the hierarchical Sindar and the Silvans in their immediate vicinity. This meant the elves around him, whether they knew it or not, were still making allowances and adjustments for the King's son. They spoke in the Sindarin language he found most comfortable. They were patient and accommodating, if not deferential. The Silvans of his mother's village held no such compulsions._

 _There were no embarrassed parents to shush curious children who reached out to touch his golden hair – a number of them joined in, as a matter of fact. He held his tongue and stayed his ground because he recalled his mother's own fascination for his father's glorious head. There were no courtly Sindarin elves who pretended not to be interested in him – here,_ elleth _giggled and pointed at him and one of the few things he understood of their chatter was his name. And the Silvan men sized him up head to toe, eyeing his built and his weapons._ Grandfather _indulged in this of course, before turning away and back to working on his gardens. Even Legolas' "bastard" cousin Orthordir, affable as he was, had that same measuring look in his eye._

 _"_ _I wish to help prepare for the feast," he said to his mother's nephew. "I have some skills with the bow, you may find use of me in the hunt."_

 _"_ _If you can keep up, your highness," Orthordir teased._

 _Orthordir shuffled the duties of the village guardsmen around; there was not many of them. The peaceful times did not make soldiering a priority in the village. Some were relegated back to guarding the borders while Orthordir and two other elves took in Legolas and a royal guardsman for a hunting party._

 _With the absolute silence required of a hunt, Legolas found himself in his element because language was eschewed in favor of hand and body signals._

 _In no time at all, the small party had their bounty. They carried home sizeable deer felled by single, powerful arrows marked by the red-gold fletching of the shafts favored by the Prince of the Woodland Realm._

 _Orthordir was stunned at his much younger cousin's efficiency and prowess, but the two Silvans with them were effusive with praise. They spoke so quickly and excitedly that Legolas did not completely understand them, but they were grinning and chucking at his head and one even walked about with the younger elf beneath his arm. Even his irreverent friends did not have the impertinence to try that on the Prince._

 _The hunting party brought the fresh kills to a bustling home in the village owned by an elf-maid named Merilel. On their walk there, Orthordir had hailed her as the finest cook in all of Arda, and received good-natured chiding from his friends, which he received with flushed cheeks and an ordered bark that silenced them. When Legolas saw the maiden he understood why. She had features as stunning as those of the vaunted Lady Mallossel's from home, except in an entirely different way. Where Mallossel was a relentlessly polished icy blond with glacial eyes, Merilel was an angry forest sprite of blazing red hair and emerald eyes. She had a stained apron that fared little worse than her weathered old clothes, and there were smudges of coal on her cheeks and the gods knew what in her hands. Like_ Grandfather _'s useful hands, hers were dirtied to the nailbeds._

 _She received them regally nonetheless, and had some knowledge of protocol enough to bow to the young Prince before barking orders in Silvan on what to do with the fresh kills. Orthordir and his men scampered to follow her bidding, while the attentions of Legolas were arrested by a tiny child-elf hovering by Merilel's skirts. It was grimed and untidy and Legolas could not even tell if it was a male or a female until she told him her name._

 _"_ _Hadrien," she said, pointing to her chest._

 _"_ _Legolas," he said, pointing to his own._

 _She beamed up at him, and spoke excitedly while making dramatic motions of arrows and getting hit and falling to the ground. Legolas was endeared, but looked up at Merilel uncertainly._

 _"_ _She asks if it was you who had killed the deer," Merilel explained, her Sindarin heavily accented._

 _Before Legolas could respond, the Silvans in their hunting party answered for him with child-like enthusiasm. Hadrien jumped up and down excitedly as they recounted the adventure of the day._

 _Merilel was more restrained. She told Legolas quietly, "Your precision bears such kindness for these animals, my lord. They should not have suffered much or long. The gods must look with favor upon your aim."_

 _"_ _I only wish to be useful," he said softly, though his heart warmed at her praise._

 _Hadrien turned her attention back to Legolas, and tugged at his tunic and steered him forward. She fully ignored the subsequent Silvan implorations which Legolas construed they meant to tell her to cease bothering him. But she had the enthusiasm and energy of a child, and he gave their companions appeasing movements with his hands to show he was eager for her attentions. She led the Prince to where she kept a child's training bow and a shaft of dulled arrows._

 _"_ _Teach," she said in Sindarin, and Legolas' mouth spread into a wide grin. It was something he was good at, and it would give him something to do while he was here._

 _"_ _Teach," he said in the Silvan dialect, which made her laugh and jump around excitedly._

#

# # #

#

Grandfather _, if he could be bothered enough to care to claim it, had the rights of a minor lord in Thranduil's kingdom. He had a resource-rich land of a sizeable size, and people who flocked around him and considered him their leader. They considered him the village "elder" and champion, and relied upon him for sage advice, the organization of their protection, the occasional dispensation of justice, and when times were lean, aid in provision as well._

 _When the Silvans took the Sindarin transplant Oropher as their King, he'd delegated village chieftains like_ Grandfather _as lords. It gave them privilege of access to the King and his court for whatever concerns they might have, but it was a position that also came with responsibilities. They were expected to give a share of resources for the kingdom's common needs, and to provide fighting soldiers in times of conflict._

Grandfather _shared his resources with the larger kingdom willingly enough – more out of deference to his beloved daughter the Queen than obligations to the crown, but the result was the same. He never exercised his right of access to the court and its King however, and never asked for anything of the Realm._

 _He just kept his head low and tilled his land and nourished his plants with the dung of the horses he himself tended, this father of the Queen with dirt to his nailbeds._

 _Legolas pondered this as he watched_ Grandfather _from a tiny window in the small room assigned to him. He was scrubbing at his hands and arms on a wash basin brought in by the royal guard who doubled as his attendant in their lean entourage. The sun was setting and the feast was almost upon them. He wanted to be rid of the grime of hunt and travel so that he could be presentable and be a credit to Oropher's house and his father's name. But it seemed the Silvans around them were not likely to bother with the same – he could still see them bustling around,_ Grandfather _included. He suspected there would be no changing to formal dinner clothes here - if they had them at all._

 _He turned to the clothes laid out for him on the thin, weathered bed and grimaced. His well-meaning Sindarin valet had packed him elegant robes. It was the proper attire for a diplomatic event in most other locales, but he feared he would get a proper ribbing for it here. The Silvans were wildflowers and he was going to look like hothouse bulb._ Good gods _his valet had even packed him a circlet. He should have brought simpler clothes. He sighed._

 _"_ _Put this away please," he told his guard as he put together a more somber and grounded ensemble. He'd just finished dressing when he heard a knock on his door._

 _"_ _Enter," he said, and was stunned to find his mother garbed in formal dress. Its lines were simple and the dress was dark-hued as her tastes ran, but the material was elegant. She even had a circlet upon her head. She looked at him in his informal daywear and frowned with displeasure._

 _"_ _Leave us," she told Legolas' guard, who recognized the Queen's tone as well as Legolas did and scampered. He closed the door behind him while Legolas sighed heavily and faced her for judgment._

 _"_ _This is not your finery," she said flatly._

 _"_ _I did not feel them to be appropriate," he said carefully._

 _"_ _Why not?"_

 _"_ _The others do not seem to be of any intent to dress similarly," he replied, reigning in his rising temper. Her accusatory tone was ruffling his feathers. "I do not understand,_ naneth _, I thought you wanted me try better to fit in?"_

 _Unspoken between them was –_ What did I do wrong this time?

 _"_ _This is not how to do it," she snapped. "They will be dressing in the finest that they have, do you understand this? It will not look so to you, but they will honor you with it and you must return that honor-"_

 _Legolas started unlacing his tunic in frustration, his long, graceful hands going through them in a frantic rush. It gave him something to do and somewhere else to look, which in turn gave him the courage to speak his mind._

 _"_ _I am here to try to please you," he seethed as he tossed away the displeasing garment and fished around for the one his attendant had already put away, "and I am doing my best but there are unspoken rules over rules over rules and I cannot understand them all!"_

 _She took a deep breath, stilled his hands and helped him dress. It was also her manner of apologizing._

 _"_ _This is my doing and I am sorry," she said quietly. "You do not think like us, why should you – I've never given you the proper chance." She smiled a little. "But that tempestuousness, Legolas. That is all mine. We will remedy_ my _shortcomings here, you will see. And I will do better not to leave you scrambling in the dark." Her smile turned mischievous. "Unless I deem it good for you."_

 _The Prince rolled his eyes at his mother, and she laughed._

 _They walked to dinner together, looking like the proper royals that they were, flanked by guardsmen and wearing their dinner best. Legolas was relieved to have listened to his mother's clothing counsel (as poorly as it was originally conveyed) because around them, the Silvans of the village really did arrive in what fine clothes their simpler lives required._

 _He sat at pride of place with_ Grandfather, _his_ naneth _, Orthordir and few other relations he was yet to properly keep track of. But the entire community was out to join them for a simple but excellently made meal on blankets and cushions set around a large bonfire in the middle of the village. The meats he and the other hunters brought in were excellently seasoned by the kitchens of Merilel, and were served with grilled vegetables, mashed roots and fresh fruits. Everything smelled divine._

Grandfather _opened the feast with a short speech and prayer, and then yielded the floor to the royal party for their own words. Legolas was at least prepared for this. He spoke in a proper if slightly stilting Silvan, rote because it was from careful memorization. He thanked_ Grandfather _receiving them into his home, and expressed his gratitude to the community for the warm welcome. On a personal note, he spoke of how much he was looking forward to spending time in the village and knowing more of his roots. His mother nodded beside him in approval, though her brows furrowed once in a while and the young Prince wondered if his accent offended her. It was off-putting but he prevailed through the short speech. At any rate, in accordance with his father the King's advice, he ended the speech with an offer of two barrels of Dor-winion for the village to share, from the King's own stores. As expected, all grammatical offenses were indeed forgotten. His gift to the village was met by enthusiastic cheers._

 _Even_ Grandfather _had a weakness for that particular vine and to him, Legolas humbled himself again. The young prince went to the elder and poured him a glass._ Grandfather _then raised it in salute. With that, all formalities were done and all that was left was good food, good wine, and good company._

#

# # #

#

 _The Dor-winion was making him more proficient in Silvan...?_

 _Legolas dizzily pondered this, as he happily mingled about the crowd and shared glass after glass with every villager who wanted to salute him. They said some things. He might have understood them or replied something generic and passable. He wasn't entirely sure._

 _He was no stranger to drink; he was not in his majority yet, but as the King's son he had ready access to enviable supplies and he had more than a few mischievous friends with whom to share them with. Diplomatic functions also allowed him a drink or two, not to mention in some locales there was more access to wine than clean, fresh water._

 _But these Silvans drank with relish and abandon. They had little care for his age and indeed, some elves slightly younger than he was were allowed to partake. Only the really young ones like Hadrien were not allowed, and yet_ good gods _even they tried to swipe a sip here and there. Not to much success thankfully; the Silvans had insanely quick reflexes and fast hands to match the appetites of their recalcitrant children, even when inebriated._

 _Legolas tsked at one such brazen attempt from Hadrien, who had snuck up to him. She laughed at having been caught, and so did the other elflings Legolas had to playfully fend off along the course of the evening. It was his most relaxed interaction of the night, because_ Grandfather _did not say much,_ naneth _was busy catching up with her friends, Orthordir was useless in Sindarin once the wine started flowing, and when Legolas switched to drinking water and started sobering, he understood their dialect less._

 _Eventually the young ones tired and/or were taken perforce by their parents home for rest. Many of the workers retired for the night too, for the days started early in a village such as this. By the protocol he followed at the stronghold's court, no one was allowed to leave until the most senior guest (usually his_ adar _) left or gave permission. That was not the case here._ Grandfather _stayed to the end, and made himself handy helping put things away. Not that there was much mess – the Silvans had brought most of their own things for dining and carried them away for their own cleaning too. There was not at all much to put away but his mother helped and therefore so did he, and Legolas also dispatched his royal guard to the same duty._

 _Orthordir was in his cups and of no good use, but Legolas kept him company by folding blankets nearby. His cousin kept a room at_ Grandather's _home as well, and had intentions of later helping Orthordir there after finishing with his tasks._

 _Orthordir garbled something about the King, and Legolas supposed he was commenting on Thranduil's choice of vintage. Everyone does._

 _"_ _He told me it is one of few ways to get on_ Grandfather's _good side," Legolas admitted with a smile._

 _Orthordir laughed, but the bawdy, merry sound drifted off and his mouth hung open at some sight behind Legolas' shoulder. Legolas glanced behind him to find the fetching Merilel gathering pillows and picking up small scraps from the ground. Orthordir had a momentary flash of inspiration to rise and help, but swayed dangerously._

 _"_ _Orthordir!" Legolas exclaimed in surprise, dropping the cloths in his hands to reach for him. Merilel, hearing the commotion, hurried over and gathered the things Legolas had dropped while the Sindar prince assisted Orthordir back to his seat. The Silvan growled but resigned himself to inebriation and settled down. He watched Merilel and Legolas with bleary venom, which the prince took in stride._

 _"_ _We do not get Dor-winion here frequently," Merilel shared. "I think our merry guardsman has overestimated his capacity for so potent a beverage."_

 _"_ _An affliction suffered even in the stronghold with its ready supply, I'm afraid," Legolas said, mock-gravely._

 _Merilel laughed. It was a good sound, lilting and light, fireflies twinkling in the night._

 _"_ _You seem to have spared yourself the aggravation," she observed._

 _Legolas was not as sober as he looked though, and he was disarmed enough to admit, "I have to stay on my toes here."_

 _"_ _Why is that?"_

 _He winced inwardly and regretted opening his mouth. "I am outnumbered," he said vaguely, half-joking._

 _She gave him a small, understanding smile. "I am familiar with the sensation. I spent some time in the stronghold you see, for an education. It never felt like home to me."_

 _"_ _Have we met before then?" Legolas asked._

 _"_ _I very much doubt that," she said. "I've seen you, of course. The King's son is hard to miss, even when surrounded by a small sea of golden haired nobles. But your lady mother was extremely kind to me and if you need an ally here, I will be one for you."_

 _"_ _I might hold you to that," he said._

 _She gave him a small bow and walked away. He was surprised to realize she'd wordlessly taken all of his work away with her too, and he was suddenly left with nothing to do but deal with his drunk cousin._

 _"_ _On your feet, you poor fool," Legolas said. He slung the bleary Orthordir's arm over his shoulder and hauled him up. Orthordir was older and heavier built, but Legolas was strong and determined. He walked forward._

 _"_ _Your friend Merilel seems kind," Legolas said in an attempt at conversation. It was better to keep Orthordir as aware as possible, so that he would not be deadweight._

 _"_ _Yes," Orthordir agreed breathily._

 _"_ _Is Hadrien her daughter?"_

 _No reply. Legolas shook his cousin awake._

 _"_ _Yes," Orthordir said finally._

 _"_ _They're both lovely," Legolas declared._

Grandfather's _door was near, but Orthordir was drifting. Legolas stumbled, then his load lightened significantly. He craned his neck beyond Orthordir's bulk to find_ Grandfather _carrying the drunken elf from the other side._

Nana _walked behind them, watching with a small smile and humming a familiar tune. She was barefoot and she held her boots swinging loosely in her hands as she strode forward. Legolas thought she looked like an elfling with not a care in the world._

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#

 _The Prince of the Woodland Realm was no stranger to early days, and he woke pretty much at the same time as the Silvans in the village did. He even beat out Orthordir, who ambled into breakfast with a cheeky grin, none the worse for his overindulgence of the previous night. He snatched pieces of bread and headed out for his work guarding the borders of the village._

 _Legolas couldn't beat out his mother or_ Grandfather _, however. They've apparently been up for hours and walking in the gardens. He watched the two of them fondly from a small window in the dining room. Sometimes he forgot that his fierce mother was still someone's child. She certainly looked like one now, hanging onto_ Grandfather's _every word with quiet intensity as they spoke quietly between themselves. They stopped once in a while to gather fallen acorns from the generous oak overhead, rich with bounty even in the cold winter._

 _Legolas wasn't sure what was expected of him this day or in the next, but he did not want to disturb them. It was perhaps a good time to get the lay of the land, walk around the village and its immediate environs for things of interest._

 _He mirrored Orthordir's actions and snatched a piece of bread, then headed out the door. His royal guard trailed him from a few steps behind as he walked forward. He caught the attention of_ Grandfather _and_ naneth _as he walked past, but he just threw them a merry wave and left them alone._

 _Like many isolated Silvan settlements, there were no great artistic or historical sights here, and the riches of the quaint village lay in the bounty of the land and the culture of the community that lived as unobtrusively as possible within it._

 _Of the Prince and the sole Sindar among them, they were openly curious and staring, but far from unkind. They all called him Legolas familiarly here, no_ ernil _or_ hir-nin _to be heard anywhere, and everyone he came across in the village offered him food and opened their doors for him to come for warmth and tea._

 _He declined the offers, but stopped from his walking here and there to chat in a mixed language that somehow got them all through. He was always a social creature for one had to be in Thranduil's court, but he found himself enjoying these interactions in an altogether different way. At court he had to be fast and clever, sometimes flirtatious and irreverent. It was fun, but there were no such underlying games here, just curiosity and connection._

 _As he walked about, he heard the unmistakable sounds of whizzing arrow shafts and the satisfying_ thwok _! of targets met. He smiled to himself and followed it – music to his ears and home to his heart, really – to a clearing on the edges of the village. There, he found a dozen elves around his age, male and female alike, lined up before targets set against bales of hay._

 _The training was being conducted by an older elf, perhaps even as old as_ Grandfather _. He had the bearing of a soldier too, but hampered by an infirmity Legolas had never seen before – he was missing a limb. He stood on a wooden leg from below the right knee. It was barely noticeable, hidden as it was beneath the trainer's breeches and boots, but as an archer Legolas was observant of form, and caught the adjustments made in posture easily._

 _The Silvans knew he was there, but waited for the trainer's signal to release their bolts before acknowledging him. These elves were training either for the village guard or for sending to the stronghold, so they also apparently had some rudimentary training in protocol too, and gave the Prince subtle bows in greeting. They stood in easy attention._

 _"_ _Please do not let me disturb you," he said, and put his hands behind his back as the trainees resumed their work. He was acting as observer, but ached very much to be invited and show them what he could do._

 _He was unsurprised to find Hadrien there in the sidelines, along with a small posse of young ones who were doing their best to mimic the trainees. They stayed well away from the field of fire, but all had children's playing bows and arrows with dulled shafts. They were standing in parallel to the older elves, and were aiming at unruly bales of hay ruggedly stained by inks from nearby herbs and flowers. Their little faces were wrinkled in contemplation of their targets._

 _Legolas sauntered over to them and watched them release. The arrows went wide. He kept a smile to himself and pretended to look over the young ones grimly. Hadrien looked up at him plaintively._

 _"_ _Teach," she reminded him in her strained Sindarin._

 _He wasn't confident in his grasp of their Silvan dialect, but he smiled at her and tried his best. He supplemented whatever he knew with hand signals. He positioned the group of four young archers farther from their targets._

 _"_ _Now - one by one," he told them._

 _Hadrien shook her head and the four young ones protested at him in an indecipherable chorus. He assumed they meant they wouldn't be able to make the shot at that distance. He appeased them with a smile and his hands._

 _"_ _You're not expected to," he said, and grappled with explaining that the minimal tension on their bows, their non-aerodynamic shafts, and the power of their pulls rendered this feat almost impossible, but that was by design._

 _"_ _Archery begins with form," he said, motioning for his body and doing a loose version of his usual stance. "and long distance shooting magnifies weakness in form," he tried to explain, though he was certain he said something more along the likes of, "More far, bigger mistake," which they again protested. How he was meant to rule like his father when he couldn't appease a band of elflings was beyond him._

 _The voice of Merilel cut into the chorus, and she drifted up beside Legolas with a translation, before nodding at him and encouraging him to continue._

 _He gave her a mildly embarrassed but relieved smile and went on, pausing intermittently to give her the room she needed to translate. "It is easier to shoot from short distances obviously, and in real situations the more accurate you can be, the better. But in practice, if you step out farther, it exposes weaknesses in your form and therefore, the accuracy of your aim._

 _"_ _For example," he continued, "if you shoot the bullseye from 20 yards, an instructor may miss a left or rightward bend on your shooting because you still hit the target. But your quirks are easier to spot from a long distance of say, 50 yards or so, because as the shaft loses velocity, the bend you had released it with becomes more apparent. And so even in mistakes you can learn. Look at where the arrow lands relative to the missed target, and you get a better picture of your weakness or quirk. Once you diagnose yourself, then you know what to fix in your form or how to manipulate your body to advantage."_

 _The elflings nodded in understanding as Merilel explained, and Legolas almost laughed at himself at his lofty ambition of defending that line of thought in his mother's language. He resolved to do better with the dialect, starting that very moment. He listened closely to Merilel and tried to remember the words he recognized._

 _And so, one by one the four elflings took their turn at the long distance shooting. They did their best efforts under Legolas' expert eye, and he took in the idiosyncrasies of their stance and bodies. He made mental notes, and then asked them to mess up their bale targets and hide the target marks. Then he ordered them to line up, each one a short distance in front of the now-unmarked bales._

 _"_ _Now we practice on blind shooting," he said. "I will tell you how to improve your form based on what I have observed of your earlier efforts. Then you shoot, shoot and keep shooting. No target means no visual distraction, and this allows you to concentrate on the shape and angles and power of your body. You may even close your eyes if it helps."_

 _The elflings moaned, and Legolas laughed, conceding it was very boring indeed, but important. He borrowed one of the young ones' dulled weapons, and they jumped up and down in anticipation of a sample of his talents. He had to admit he was eager for it too._

 _The play weapons were small in his hands, really powerless and insignificant. But he knew his body, he knew his eye. It allowed him to use pretty much any bow and arrow and adjust accordingly._

 _"_ _Give me a target, Hadrien," he told the giddy young elleth. She pointed to a low-hanging fruit and he clucked his tongue at her playfully. "You insult me, my lady."_

 _Merilel translated that with a smirk, and told him – "Well, archer. Maybe I have more imagination."_

 _It was a challenge he was happy to receive. "Go on."_

 _She pointed to a fruit farther, higher, and only slightly unobscured. He grinned with pleasure._

 _"_ _If you know your body," he said to the young ones as he walked, walked farther from the target and angled his body, "You will know how to make adjustments."_

 _He aimed. He shot. And the pretty little fruit Merilel wanted landed in the fair elf maiden's outstretched palms, none the worse for wear, its stem nicked by a child's toy._

 _The elflings cheered, and Legolas grinned at them. He realized only when he looked up from the young ones that the other trainees were also watching._

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#

 _The next day he met with the children for a different type of exercise. He was not sure how long he would have their attention, so he was teaching them all the drills he could, which they could later do on their own if they wanted to._

 _The merry troupe – Legolas and his royal guard, Merilel his translator, Hadrien and her posse of three, plus a few strays who were informed of the prince's skills and tutoring and wanted to join in – headed into the forest with their play weapons._

 _The agenda of the day was angle shooting._

 _"_ _Training before targets on a plain is unrealistic," he explained to his enraptured audience. "Because form is so important, know that your form will change will change when you aim at an angle – when you have to shoot from uneven ground, from atop trees, from ravines and cliffs and so on. We will practice with this today."_

 _He caught up the others on the broad strokes of the previous day's lessons, then let all of them move forward with the new drills for angle shooting._

 _They took a break for lunch – the children had packed lunches with Legolas did not think to bring for himself and his guard, but Merilel had – "Payment for the training in a way," she explained away, which he received gladly, for she was indeed a wondrous cook._

 _They all ended their day in a jolly camaraderie, and he found he had learned quite a lot of words in the company of children, whose vocabulary was also basic but useful._

 _He returned home in time for the evening meal, which he shared with_ Grandfather _, his_ naneth _and Orthordir. He shared stories of his day, which his mother could not help but smile about, especially when he realized he had said it partly in Silvan._

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#

 _The next day, he was waylaid from meeting with his "students" by_ Grandfather _, who accosted him on his way out the door._

 _"_ _Legolas," he called out, and the young prince warily stepped into the elder's receiving room, where three Silvans stood with him. They looked cross, and with them were two of the slightly older elves Legolas taught the day before. The pair looked embarrassed and also slightly defiant. All the Silvans gave him a slight bow in deference to his rank, though the older ones still looked displeased._

Grandather _motioned for the older Silvans to speak, which they did in a rush of words and gestures. Legolas, bewildered though he was, caught the gist of their grievances._

 _The naughty pair of youngsters were caught red-handed angle shooting from the roofs of the village apparently, disrupting the course of life below – shooting at posts, pots, windows, over other villagers' heads and so on. Legolas' cheeks flushed, and he wondered if_ Grandfather _would put a halt to all the mischief he had unwittingly unleashed on the village. There was something in the old Silvan's eyes though, a curious, softening gleam Legolas had never seen on him before._

 _"_ _Was anyone harmed?" he asked meekly._

 _'_ _No,'_ Grandfather _said, but reminded Legolas that if he were to teach the young ones skills, he must also nurture their restraint. Legolas bit his lip, unsure of how to do that – he was young himself. But he nodded gravely in understanding and promised the elders his personal purse would cover expenses from any damages, and that he would discuss the topic in the very next lesson._

Grandfather _then asked about a fitting punishment, which Legolas was not expecting. His thoughts raced for an answer._

 _"_ _They will assist in repairs of damages," he replied, "and be forbidden from participating in today's lesson, except to collect the shafts in support of their fellow students."_

Grandfather _'s eyes narrowed in thought, and weighed Legolas' idea. He had a sudden realization that he was being tested, though for what he was unsure. He held his breath, until_ Grandfather _turned to the disgruntled Silvan villages if this suited them. Everyone was reasonably appeased, and Legolas exited the house relieved, accompanied by his two unapologetic delinquents._

 _They each boasted of the distances their shots covered, of the new accuracy of their aims. Legolas laughed helplessly because their voices would have still carried over to inside_ Grandfather's _house, and therefore into the ears of those they had unrepentantly aggrieved. He looked behind him as he walked, and found_ Grandfather _watching him go with that look in his eyes again._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	5. Manic Restlessness

**hello everyone!**

I hope everyone is having a great holiday season! I would like to say a big thank you to all who are following and reading this story, and especially those kind enough to drop me a review and tell me what they think. I really, really appreciate it... I read and re-read reviews, and every single one is treasured :) Not everyone is able to do so which is understandable given all the demands in our respective RLs, so I appreciate it all the more :)

As always, C&Cs are encouraged and welcome! But even if you are unable to feed the author so to speak haha, I just hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it :) Thank you for your time and I wish you a happy new year!

Without further ado:

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 **5: Manic Restlessness**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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Again, his eyes settled upon the vaulted ceilings of his rooms. He is unsure if he had fallen asleep and is waking up, or had just drifted in thought and is returning to focus. He isn't sure if it is still the same day. Or night.

All he knows is that he keeps seeing moments of a past he has refused to think about in centuries, invoked by his illness and the prodding of his father's ministers. Lastor, Brenion and Maenor watched him attentively.

"Is it still the same damned day?" he moans miserably, before sighing and speaking of the things he can recall before they slip away. He sighs impatiently.

"I was spending the winter at my grandfather's village," Legolas says. "The Queen's father, that is. She wished for home after so long away, and she wanted me to... to..."

He bites his lip and searches for the proper words. She wanted him to be more Silvan. She wanted him to be more like her, even just a little bit. Her desire had been so simple...

"To be amongst my people," he says softly.

"The Queen's home is in the far northwest of our woods," says Brenion, "near the foot of the Grey Mountains east of Gundabad."

Legolas nods. "It was a different time. The forest not as dark, the orcs scattered and not so bold. We had no reason to have any particularly escalated fear for our safety in a time of relative peace. My grandfather's village did not even have soldiers, just citizen-guards. They did not call us the Mirkwood, then."

The ministers grimace collectively. It is a name none of them appreciated, but they cannot deny the reasons why the rest of the world began calling their beloved home thus. The death of the Queen earlier in the age was only the beginning for them, the first shadow of a darkening realm that shortly and quickly afterwards, fell into deeper gloom, distrust and eventually, self-imposed isolation.

"We arrived without incident," Legolas relays. "For weeks we stayed without incident. I learned much and also had ample opportunity to share my own knowledge. I taught the young ones proper use of their bows and arrows."

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 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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#

 _The arrows sang from the elflings' bows with stunning accuracy that even had some of the off-duty guards watching them, including Orthordir, whistling and impressed. The young ones straightened and puffed out their chests in quiet pride, barely able to keep their self-satisfied grins to themselves. Legolas on the other hand, laughed openly and delightedly from where he stood watching beside Merilel._

 _They were broken into several small groups now, for even more elves – including some of the older ones who were formally training to be guards - had joined in the lessons after Legolas' two delinquent students disrupted the village and word of their surprising prowess spread. A few more incidents have been reported to_ Grandfather _since, but the shenanigans were generally harmless and have even made his mother laugh. They also served to redirect even more Silvans into Legolas' training field._

 _"_ _Gather your spent shafts and huddle up!" he called out, and the elflings promptly scattered to do as instructed._

 _"_ _You've done us a great service,_ hir-nin _," Merilel told him as they waited for the young ones to return. "It is not only the skills that are learned here, but the discipline."_

 _"_ _I am just glad to be of some use during my time here," he said. "I am also grateful the youths can be spared from their daily tasks in indulgence of me."_

 _"_ _If anything you increased their efficiency," she joked. "They hurry along with finishing their chores to catch some part of your regimen. Did you really train this way since you were young?"_

 _"_ _Perks and pitfalls of being the King and Queen's son I'm afraid," he said good-naturedly. "I am forever surrounded by weaponry and royal guard. One mishap trying to emulate them on my own – I grazed someone's head and was soundly punished – and they resigned themselves to teaching me the proper ways early before I hurt myself or others. Besides, it kept me productively occupied – father and mother being away on their duties all the time."_

 _"_ _It sounds... lonely," she said before she could stop herself. She took it back quickly. "I am sorry, my lord. That is improper."_

 _He shrugged. "It is what it is. It never feels so for me, only in hindsight and not even much from there. At any rate I had a bevy of shall we say, similarly situated friends."_

 _Sindar nobles with little to no chores or livelihoods really, whose noble parents were occupied with business or travels or courtly intrigue. He realized it's been awhile since he thought about them._

 _"_ _At any rate," said Merilel, "We are grateful for the path that brought you here to us in sharing your valuable knowledge."_

 _"_ _It is I who must thank you," he said emphatically, "for translating on my behalf and for sharing your food with me."_

 _"_ _These last few days you barely needed any help," she said. "Your language skills are dramatically improved."_

 _"_ _You are right," he jested. "But I like pretending so that I may keep you around for the food."_

 _She laughed. Over the past few weeks, there developed between them an easy friendship. She was older than he but younger than Orthordir so not by too much, and the time she spent in the stronghold and her familiarity with his way of life helped in their camaraderie._

 _"_ _I need to keep you well-fed," she said. "Help maintain your energy with the little ones. My sister alone can be a handful, more so her posse of friends."_

 _Legolas' brows furrowed. "Your sister?"_

 _She frowned at him. "Hadrien."_

 _"_ _Huh," said Legolas. "I thought she was your daughter."_

 _She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "You think I am so old as to – "_

 _"_ _I was told some customs allow for early marriages than what I may be used to," he said quickly. It was a lesson learned – no_ elleth _wanted their ages to be mistaken for old, Silvan and Sindar alike..._

 _"_ _I think I'd misunderstood something that someone said," he added. "I apologize, I meant nothing by it. I'd wondered why I never met your husband."_

 _She was still slightly cross with him and it took her a beat to retort, "I've not met him either."_

 _He laughed. "I beg your forgiveness, Merilel, I really do. Please do not starve me tomorrow. I am a growing elf still."_

 _"_ _I just might," she told him impishly._

 _The elflings gathered around them and Legolas explained – in his mother's and now his own language - that they were doing targeting exercises next. Whenever a topic became too complex he shifted to Sindarin, with Merilel seamlessly filling in the Silvan version._

 _"_ _As I told you before," he went on, "Form and movement are incredibly important. You establish a rhythm with your body and your weapon. But never let it be forgotten that the eye, like the rest of your body, has muscles – and so are also affected by how you train. It can be conditioned, sometimes to detriment. Shooting consistently at a still, flat mark can create target dependency. What this means is, your eye is trained only to shoot at a bullseye. But in field conditions, that is seldom ever the case – you have to account for movement, depth and shadow-"_

 _He was cut off by the sudden_ whack! _of something hard but light smacking on his forehead. He blinked at the assault, and barely registered he had been pelted with a shelled acorn when another one came and caught him on the nose. The third he ducked and the fourth, he caught._

 _His royal guard tensed and so did everyone else, until his attacker emerged from one of the branches of the mighty trees..._

 _It was_ Grandfather.

 _"_ _What in all of Arda,_ Grandfather _!" he exclaimed before he could stop himself. The old Silvan walked up to Legolas proudly and took his time about it too._

 _"_ _You also have to account for the surrounding environment," he said. "And you have to act quickly. Many archers can make the perfect shot if they took forever aiming, you know. But you won't always have the luxury of time or single-minded attention. You can be in the forest aiming at a deer with a wolf or a bear stealthily coming up the rear. Or worse – aiming at an orc with his warg suddenly sniffing at your arse. Be aware, and be fast."_

 _"_ _Speed and the ability to multi-task will come with enough practice of form and muscle memory," Legolas pointed out stiffly. "I would have gotten to that lesson, later."_

 _"_ _Eventually,"_ Grandfather _said with a shrug. "Laeg - your_ naneth _looks for you. The young ones can do without your presence for an afternoon, princeling."_

 _Legolas' nostrils flared in annoyance at the interruption but he nodded and turned his back on his_ Grandfather _. His royal guard followed and the two of them exited to hushed sounds of disappointment from the children._

 _He walked across the village and back to_ Grandfather's _house, where he found his mother in the kitchens. She looked up at him with a broad grin._

 _"_ _I told_ adar _I missed you but was happy you were enjoying your time amongst our kin," she said. "I am guessing he did not leave it alone."_

 _He could not help but smile at her gentle look._

 _"_ _I am sorry to have been so occupied," he said. "I thought I would amuse myself and let you have your own time here, since we go home together to the stronghold anyway."_

 _"_ _That is very logical," she said wryly as she resumed working, "but I came here of a mind to spend some time with you too."_

 _"_ _What are you doing?" Legolas asked, watching her busy hands._

 _There was a basket of fat, freshly-fallen acorns in a corner of the kitchen (where_ Grandfather _had apparently gotten his 'weapons' against Legolas from earlier), and acorns in various states of, of, Legolas had no word for it,_ acorn-ness _on other surfaces of the room. Some were set to boiling water in a pot. Others were drying and others still, shelled. It was all in productive disarray, which was par for the course for his_ naneth _._

 _"_ _I am making acorn flour," she replied cheerily. "And I think I might have some use for those strong, clever archer's arms of yours."_

 _She gave him tasks fit for an elfling – basically, smashing at things almost indiscriminately. She put him to work cracking shells between a towel and a mallet. She put him to work mashing the extracted meats. The more technical things, like leaching the acorns in a cheese cloth submerged on cold water to rid it of its bitter and sometimes toxic tannins, she did herself. They then let the meats dry on trays out in the open air – she made her son climb to the roof - and retrieved the trays that had been left to dry from the previous day._

 _They interspersed the work with quiet conversation, but mostly Legolas found he delighted in working alongside his mother. She had good, working hands – they were fast, light, long-fingered, strong and sure. They danced over her tasks efficiently._

 _It was late afternoon by the time they finished working the dried meats into a small grain mill_ Grandfather _kept in a shed outside the main house, and almost time for dinner when they finished sifting the product and finally, finally extracting the flour. It was a surprisingly small amount after all the hard work, but Legolas felt giddy about it. He couldn't wait to make something of the flour._ Naneth _promised him cookies for the next day._

 _"_ _But can we not make them now?" he asked, somewhat petulantly._

 _She reached out to touch his face gently, with her grimed, working hands. It was not her usual way and he was suddenly afraid to move or speak in case she flitted away._

 _"_ _You really are still a child," she said with a soft smile. "I forget sometimes."_

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The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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Sometimes, he forgets that there are things he still remembers, only that they are secreted away.

 _I forgot._

 _I forgot that I remembered and cherished all of these things..._

 _Acorn flour and cookies. For the love of the gods. They did not even taste so good._

From the shadowy depths of his concealed and most painful memories, he crawls slowly toward the information – toward the dark, dark days - that his father's ministers need from him. He closes his eyes and presses fingers against the bridge of his nose. He has a splitting headache.

"I do not even know if this is important," he says. "I do not even know if I've said this before."

"Just speak of what comes to mind," encourages Lastor, "whatever memory brings you the information we need is important to the process, whether or not they hold value in themselves."

"I was teaching the children," he continues in a strained voice. He fists his hand and pounds at the center of his forehead. He shuts his mouth and swallows thickly, feeling at the edges of being sick. He pushes on.

"Part of our lessons were learning to aim and shoot in different lights of day," he says shakily. He opens his eyes in irritation when Maenor pushes his fist away from his face, but murmurs " _Hannon-le_ , my lord" when the healer replaces it with a cool, wet cloth that smells subtly of something minty. He exhales in relief and continues stronger.

"But the village lies in the shadow of the mountain," he says softly. "The pursuit of daylight is not so easy. Sometimes we have to venture far, but always with proper precaution. I would have two royal guards with me. We limited the number of students we would bring, so we brought them out only a few at a time in a scheduled rotation. I had a local guide who had some tutelage with the sword – Merilel. All of these were precautions aside from the civilian guards we were assured would be manning the village borders. Sometimes one or two of them would even accompany us if not too waylaid by other business, and when the fancy struck, my mother or my grandfather would join as well. We were always home before nightfall."

"There were no hints of orc, goblin or any other enemy activity?" Lastor asks, "No strange events, prior incidents? Even gossip sometimes offers usable information."

"None," Legolas shakes his head. "There were children. We would not have taken risks like that if there were hints of danger."

"You were a child yourself," Maenor points out.

"I forget sometimes," he murmurs.

"Many of those children have since made their way into our ranks," Brenion says. "They remember and cherish the time their prince made for them when they were just elflings. They tended to be quicker studies, and better archers in general. I am approached once in a while about it, Legolas, the topic discussed with much gratitude and fondness. You must have been too."

 _No one makes the error of reminding of those days_ , Legolas thinks, but he just shakes his head.

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 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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#

 _He headed for his room in_ Grandfather's _house._

 _It was early evening, the sun having just descended when he and his merry group of trainees returned to their community. It was a long but productive day, and he was eager for a change of clothes and afterwards just sit down to dinner with_ naneth, Grandfather _and Orthordir if his cousin's duties could spare him._

 _What he found when he reached his door, however, had him stopping short. Orthordir was in his room, back to Legolas and looking out the window. Legolas was about to greet his cousin, until he noticed something even more strange than the unexpected intrusion._

 _Orthordir was wearing his royal circlet._

 _Legolas was, frankly, only mildly fond of the bauble. He barely needed it to be recognized as Thranduilion and therefore prince of the realm, and seldom needed it to invoke his royal status to get whatever he wanted. But seeing it upon someone else's head irked him._

 _Orthordir's body stiffened, as if he realized he was being watched. But when he finally turned to face Legolas, he had a grin on his face that still did not diminish a small, sharp glint in his eye._

 _"_ _I make this look good, cousin," he teased. He did not remove it, committed to a particular course of action now. "Do you think if I had one of these she would give me the time of day?"_

 _Legolas glanced toward the window, and realized Orthordir was speaking of Merilel, whose house was in easy view from where they stood. He itched to get his circlet back, but treaded carefully._

 _"_ _I never needed it to get to who and what I want," Legolas said carefully. He stepped closer._

 _"_ _Ah, spoken like a true-born Sindarin noble," said his cousin, in a tease. "Why would you need it, everyone already knows who you are. So what did you bring it around here for if not to impress a country Silvan elleth, eh? Are we having a ball or some such thing I've not been made aware of?"_

 _Legolas shrugged. "I do not have a household of my own yet, so I share a valet with_ adar _. One of those sticklers for the old ways, really, a remnant from King Oropher's time. Extended travels outside the Realm necessitated some form of regalia as part of protocol."_

 _Orthordir snorted._

 _"_ _I first thought she was already spoken for," Legolas said conversationally. "Merilel. You told me Hadrien was her daughter."_

 _Orthordir shook his still-crowned head. "You must have misunderstood."_

 _"_ _I would like my property back now," Legolas said._

 _Orthordir's eyes widened in mischief. "Oh but you really shouldn't leave such precious things just lying around."_

 _"_ _I did not know I had to fear for the safety of my things in my own room," said Legolas, "but I shall consider this a learning experience."_

 _"_ _This is actually my room, cousin," said Orthordir, "which I generously vacate in temporary instances for such vaunted guests as yourself."_

 _Legolas moved toward Orthordir, who dodged out of the way with a surprised laugh._

 _"_ _If you mean to take it by force you need to do a better job than-"_

 _Legolas swiped again, and Orthordir yelped with a narrow escape, allowed only by instinct honed through his age and experience._

 _"_ _You are feisty!" he exclaimed with a laugh, and they paused in consideration of each other for a long moment. Legolas was younger, but well-grown and well-trained. Orthordir, apparently liking his odds, giggled merrily and ran out the door, prize in his hands._

 _For a long moment, Legolas stood stock-still, disbelieving the utter childishness of the whole affair. He tried to calm down, but his blood heated rather than cooled. He growled and stalked out of the rooms in pursuit of his cousin, who had made his way into_ Grandfather's _living rooms. The old Silvan as well as_ naneth _were there._ Grandfather's _mouth was agape at first, but Legolas saw his eyes trail to the sparkling circlet on Orthordir's hands, and his brows furrowed in dawning realization of what was happening. Legolas hoped he would intercede, and_ Grandfather _looked to be considering doing so._

 _"_ _What is the meaning of this?" the Queen asked. She had a hint of danger to her voice, warning both Orthordir and Legolas that things had better not be as silly as they appeared._

 _"_ _Just games afoot, aunt," Orthordir said good-naturedly._

 _"_ _That is no toy you hold so cavalierly in your hands!" Legolas retorted. "And it is not your property."_

 _"_ _Why don't you ask your_ naneth _or perhaps our grandfather to return it to you, my Prince?" Orthordir teased, though there was condescension there that Legolas could not miss._

 _"_ _I shouldn't have to," Legolas snapped. "It is mine, taken unjustly."_

 _"_ _Why don't you spar me for it?"_

 _Legolas shook his head at his older cousin in dismay. "You are older. You were a soldier and a guard by profession. These things not only makes me a quantifiably weaker opponent who would be foolish to accept your challenge, they also make such childish games unworthy of you."_

 _Orthordir grinned. "I told you these courtly scruples do not bother me. So you will not meet my challenge?"_

 _"_ _Will you not intercede?" Legolas finally asked his mother and_ Grandfather _._

 _The old Silvan's eyes were narrowed in thought... and measurement. Legolas' temper roiled. He was always being measured here, wasn't he? And now being challenged by the cousin he had initially found so affable._

 _"_ _I can dispense justice if that is what you seek," said the older elf. "The taking of one's property is no small matter and I would agree with you that these games are indeed childish." He looked at Orthordir with undisguised censure, and the village guardsman had the grace to look slightly ashamed._

 _"_ _If you wish to escalate things,_ Laeg, _then I can help you,"_ Grandfather _went on. "Or you can just have some sport with your cousin, and it would all just be a game."_

 _Legolas growled at displeasure, but turned to his cousin. "I cannot spar gambling with that crown. It is not mine to lose. It belonged to my father when he was heir, and it will belong to my child if I should ascend. I cannot in good conscience accept a challenge that would risk its loss. I am merely its custodian."_

 _"_ _Then you've done a poor job of looking after your charge, haven't you?" teased Orthordir. "Come on, little cousin. Why don't you ask me for something of equal importance? If you win, I will yield it."_

 _Legolas was angry enough to retort, "You own nothing I want, and nothing I cannot acquire without having to fight."_

 _Orthordir winced._

 _The disparaging, classist comment had displeased his_ naneth, _Legolas could tell from the disappointment in her gaze, but she bit her tongue. Legolas took a deep breath. It displeased him too, in afterthought. He'd never been cruel or unkind, but that such words could come from his mouth meant there were also such thoughts that hovered on the surface of his mind._

 _Calm, he had to calm down. It was all teasing and fun and games, wasn't it? And while there was an undercurrent here of something he could not completely understand and it unnerved him, he thought perhaps that maybe his cousin just had a bad day, or was embarrassed at having been caught trying on the circlet and making up for it with playfulness._

 _"_ _Surely there is something I can offer," Orthordir said, his bouncy tone still now somewhat edged._

 _Feeling contrite, Legolas said – "All I seek is the return of my property, nothing more."_

 _This seemed to anger his cousin inexplicably, for Orthordir's eyes flashed. It was the Queen however, who spoke._

 _"_ _Ask for something important,_ Legolas _," she said. "And do not insult him by asking for nothing. Think of something of value."_

 _"_ _Where I'm from we do not take advantage," Legolas said darkly. Did his_ naneth _expect him to for example, demand Orthordir for material things when he as a royal already owned so much and needed nothing?_

 _"_ _You're from_ here _," she said flatly. "where we give everything we have, and expect the same of our opponent. Rob him blind with my every blessing,_ ion _."_

 _Legolas frowned. Every time he thought he understood this place, these people, his own mother, they thrust him back into complete confusion. He took a deep breath and settled himself. If he wanted to win, he had to keep his thinking straight and let his blood go cold. When he calmed, things crystalized._

 _"_ _Merilel," he said._

 _"_ _What about her?" Orthordir asked._

 _"_ _If I win," said Legolas, "You will need my blessing to court her. And it will not come easy. My permission may even come after I have decided whether or not to pursue her myself." He did not mean it, but he knew it mattered to Orthordir and so he let that horrifying thought sink in for his cousin. Battling was not only with the body, after all._

 _"_ _And if I win," said Orthordir, "this circlet is mine to keep, and return to you only as I see fit – and it will not come easy either."_

 _"_ _You may keep it as long as it is mine," Legolas corrected. "Ownership of that is rightly to the Elvenking's heir, not myself personally. If I ascend or am killed before ascension, it should be yielded to the proper heir. Do you understand?"_

 _"_ _Completely," Orthordir said. "Let's play, cousin. I must warn you – I mean very much to draw first blood."_

 _"_ _I don't care," Legolas said mildly, "As long as I win at the end."_

 _They sparred with dulled swords that_ Grandfather _kept around, outside the old Silvan's house._

 _In spite of Legolas' humble claims of being younger and not being a soldier, they were an even match. Orthordir had greater years, bulk and experience, but the Prince had more natural talents, not to mention the advantage of superior, individual training and sparring experience from the best of their Realm – his family's royal guards, the finest of all the soldiers._

 _The duel began as a simple affair. But the sparring session soon drew in the neighbors - Merilel and a whopping, cheering Hadrien included. This proved to be the end for Orthordir. He lost his cool just as Legolas was gaining a better appreciation and understanding of his opponent's strengths and weaknesses. Soon, the older cousin was sprawled on the ground with a blade to his throat._

 _"_ _Yield," Legolas said._

 _And as he looked up at Legolas defiantly, the young prince saw it again, that simmering fire in his cousin's eyes. But then again, Orthordir was not expected to be a happy about losing, was he?_

 _"_ _Don't even try it," Legolas murmured, when he saw Orthordir jerk minutely, as if about to make a sudden move._

 _After a long moment of silence, Orthordir's lips curled up and he grinned at his victorious cousin. "Well it wouldn't be the first time a Silvan gave in to a Sindar royal now would it?"_

 _Legolas offered his cousin a hand up, which Orthordir took. The small crowd around them applauded the match, and Orthordir handed the circlet back to Legolas with exaggerated reverence. It was in Legolas' hands but bare moments though, when he received another challenge._

 _Heads swiveled over to where_ Grandfather _stood. He was looking at Legolas with another unreadable expression in his eyes, and in a quiet voice he asked again –_

 _"_ _I too, would like a chance to play for so lovely a prize."_

 _"_ _I hope you are joking_ Grandfather _," Legolas said exasperatedly._

 _"_ _He doesn't joke," Orthordir said with a guffaw. "Oh, cousin. Do not let him trick you into it."_

 _This time, the young Prince had no qualms about deferring to his mother. Pride and emerging adulthood and everything else aside, he exclaimed in protestation, "_ Naneth _! Will you not help me find ease from this madness?"_

 _She looked at him with a thoughtful glint in her eye that mirrored her father's, and he realized quickly that she was wanting to see how he handled this wrinkle. He growled in frustration, but raised his sword and swung it in his_ Grandfather's _direction in both acceptance of his challenge, as well as no small measure of frustration._

Grandfather _grinned at him, which was the most terrifying thing Legolas had ever seen in this village. The old Silvan accepted the sword Orthordir had lost with, which the younger elf offered, hilt-first. The wiry old Silvan swung them experimentally and stretched. In the meantime, the Queen glided over to her profoundly irritated son._

 _"_ _Your father," she murmured at him, "Thranduil will have your head for gambling with the circlet. You know these_ Sindar _with their baubles."_

 _"_ _I am aware," Legolas seethed. "You can tell him it is through no fault of mine. The manic restlessness of this family has emerged in me at last."_

 _His tone softened though, when he realized the statement, made in straight Silvan dialect like the rest of all the conversations he had this night, was also recognition of his lineage here (disparaging as it was). It made his_ naneth _look proud._

 _"_ _Is it a bad time to tell you your father will almost certainly be on his way soon?" she asked, mock-innocently. "I wrote him to visit two weeks past, so that he may see for himself the work you have done for our people here and then we can all leave for the stronghold together. He has written to say arrangements will be made. It is supposed to be a surprise and no one knows really, but – well – now you do."_

 _Legolas groaned at the thought of his_ adar _coming to the village, only to find him stripped of his crown. "_ Grandfather _will hand my arse to me, won't he?"_

 _She shrugged. "He is the best I've ever seen, second perhaps only to the Elvenking. You will give him a good fight,_ ion _, but he will win your circlet in the end. Do not worry though – he will give you a chance to win it back, eventually. Maybe even before Thranduil arrives."_

 _"_ _What will I get if I win?" he remembered to ask, and he called this out to the old Silvan who was beginning to pace menacingly around him._

 _"_ _Everything I own,"_ Grandfather _promised, motioning for the house he had built, his trees, his land._

#

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The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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#

 _He landed his hits all right,_ Legolas recalls, with a wry fondness he hasn't felt in a long time, and it was a surprising comfort as he worked his way into remembering and sharing details of the days that led up to his and his mother's capture.

"My grandfather bested me in a duel," he tells the three ministers. "I lost my circlet on that gamble, but he gave me a chance to earn it back. If I could learn fighting with the knives to his satisfaction, he would release it back to me. Now that I am older, I understand better now... he wanted to spend time with me, I think. He just did not know how else to do it."

His heart stings at the thought, but he swallows against the resulting ache in his throat. "This is how I kept ending up in the woods, outside of the community. I was training a rotation of elflings in archery early in the day, and afterwards spending time with my grandfather in close combat training with a pair of knives. These knives were just like the ones the Queen carried... just like the weapons I now always have on my person and revert to after the bow.

"The Queen," he continues, and as always, all thought of her makes him shake, "she always did say the knives would sing in my hands if I only let my grandfather teach me."

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 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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Grandfather _, as a teacher, had the patience and care of a gardener. It shouldn't have been a surprise, for he knew how to let things grow._

 _Legolas had initially agreed to take the lessons in the knives because he needed his circlet back, ideally before his father the Elvenking arrived for his visit. But he started enjoying the training sessions almost immediately, and always found himself looking forward to the time he would spend with his grandfather out in the woods. He had learned the Silvan dialect in his time here, but in the weapons and amongst the trees, he found his grandfather's true language._

 _The twin knives carried a certain ethos, a kind of philosophy in living and killing. They did not have the majesty, showmanship and menace of a single, longer, bigger sword. They did not project domination or power. Rather, they were light and quiet but relentlessly efficient. They were quick workers who kept their heads low and got the job done. They did not have names. They worked in tandem and not alone. They killed quickly and mercifully, for there was no innate joy to be found in brutality._

 _Sometimes_ naneth _joined them – to keep them from killing each other she would often joke (she had very few), though Legolas could tell watching him with his grandfather in the woods of her home, in the weapons she had always envisioned for him, simply delighted her._

 _He liked delighting her and at any rate, and with training the elflings and his own hours spent learning from his grandfather, the time they could spend together decreased dramatically so her presence was always welcome. Having her watch them and share light meals with them in the woods was a pleasure in itself, especially when the break in lessons gave opportunity for him to learn about the woods from those who knew it best._

 _His mother and grandfather taught him how to reach out for the song of the trees, and find that note in his blood that he shared with the woodland. It underlain everything good and living there, including the Silvan elves. Once he found it in himself, upon that note he could linger, and that was the plane where his_ fea _met..._ everything _. He found his mother's song, his grandfather's, the trees, the flowers, all the tiny little creatures of their vast forests._

 _It was like opening another sense. It expanded his world._

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 _Their village home established a routine._

 _Early in the morning, Legolas would share breakfast with his mother, his grandfather, and Orthordir when the latter's duties freed him at that time. They would part with the rising of the sun. Legolas' grandfather would be off to work his land, and_ naneth _off to help him or to help around in the community. Orthordir would leave for his guardsman duties, and Legolas would be picked up by Merilel and a handful of elflings for the day's training._

 _Legolas, Merilel, his students and two royal escorts (the third was assigned perforce to the Queen even when she was only in the village, whether she liked it or not) would then go to the woods for archery. There they would stay for hours and finish by lunch to share a meal. At the end of the meal and a short rest, the elflings and Merilel would leave Legolas and head back to the village to be replaced by Legolas' grandfather, with whom the young Prince trained in the knives until just before the sun set. They, along with the two royal guards assigned to Legolas, would then return to the village together in time for dinner. Sometimes, they brought home meat and fish, too. When his mother the Queen and her escort joined them, they all walked home together._

 _One afternoon, Merilel and the children begged and pleaded to stay behind a little and see what their princely teacher had managed to learn from his own training sessions. Legolas had improved significantly by then and was eager to indulge them (and inextricably, to show off because his mother was also there), but deferred to his grandfather._

 _The old Silvan took his time deciding, playing with rubbing at his chin in thought. But his eyes danced as the young ones made their case, and Legolas grinned in knowing anticipation of his agreement. When it came, the announcement was met by the elflings' enthusiastic cheering and dancing. Legolas barely managed to contain his own._

 _The best showcase of the sum of his learnings, Legolas' grandfather declared, was to spar. Legolas welcomed the proposal heartily, and the two drew out their training knives – a pair for each elf - and walked around each other in light, graceful, cat-like postures that concealed untold reserves of energy and power._

 _And then two Silvan elves danced beneath the trees, their music the sound of rustling leaves accompanied by the clanging of dulled blades._

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The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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#

He feels a gentle pounding between his shoulder blades, and he opens dulled eyes previously clenched in agony as he coughed and dry heaved while lying off the side of his bed. His body yields nothing to the floor however, and he is settled back to lie on his back. He closes his eyes again; the room spins. The headache is becoming singularly torturous.

"It was how they found us," he mumbles to the attentive audience he knows are still there, on the fringes of his misery. "My grandfather and I were engrossed in battle – I'd become good enough to merit more of his attention, and the others were watching us - _naneth_ , Merilel, the children... We did not hear the warning of the trees, for I am certain now that they would have given it. We were not on our guard. As I said – it was a different time."

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	6. No Mercy

**hi everyone!**

Thanks to everyone who are reading, following, favoriting and especially reviewing this latest effort of mine. I hope it is still unfolding according to your preferences, and will continue to do so even as embark on the parts that get dark.

 **Please be warned of violence ahead.** Nothing too graphic I think, and most who went into this story have a solid grasp of the theme and where it is headed, but another warning never really hurts :)

As always, c&c's are welcome and cherished. Next chapter should be up in a week or so. 'Til then hope you enjoy the reading as much I enjoy the writing ;) Thanks for your time!

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 **6: No Mercy**

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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 _This time it will be different, Legolas told himself, and with every sure, powerful swing of his twin knives, he proved it. He matched his grandfather step by step. The old Silvan fought him with unmasked glee._

 _Their witnesses oohed as they moved, kicking from trunks, jumping from branches, swiping, dodging. Their dulled blades met, and sometimes there was a thwack! from hit flesh, but it barely stopped either of them. The Silvan warrior-queen was laughing and applauding. She was Legolas' main distraction, but his grandfather had a distraction of his own – Legolas himself. The old Silvan delighted in the skills and Silvan spirit unleashed in the all-too-Sindar-looking Prince._

 _Legolas always knew he was going to lose to his grandfather however, it was only a matter of time. He had enough self-awareness to know he just had to put on a heck of a show before it ended. All too soon he was on his back on the ground, with his grandfather straddling him._

 _"_ _Yield," commanded the older Silvan, but before Legolas could do so, he heard?felt? a strange sensation. It might have been due to his place on the ground and the intimacy it gave him to the land, or it might have been due to some other instinct he did not yet know he had. But he turned his head at a rushing, whistling thing that was coming from the forest and before he could really think, he pulled his grandfather forward against his chest._

 _The surprised older elf fell against Legolas, just as a black arrow shaft whizzed by where his head had been. It was so surreal to the younger elf that the arrow moved as if in slow motion, like a black line streaking across the sky._

 _It was a line that demarcated one point of time and another. Things were never going to be the same again._

 _The arrow meant for Legolas' grandfather missed, but that meant for one of the three royal guards in their company did not. A vicious thwack! preceded his gurgling cry, and was followed by a dull thump! As he fell to the ground._

 _Legolas' grandfather's posture, from his surprised collapse against the younger elf who had pulled him in, changed dramatically. He expanded his small body, covering as much of Legolas' as he could._

 _"_ _Stay down and stay still," he uttered at the prince as he raised his head and looked around. He ducked and Legolas jerked when an arrow shaft landed on the ground by Legolas' head._

 _"_ _They are taking the warriors out first!" Legolas heard his mother exclaim, and he craned his neck to find some sight of her. Like him, she was pressed against the ground beneath the protection of one of the guards. Merilel and the children were crouched near her. Over them stood a wary royal guard turning around and around for some trace of their assailants. At his feet lay the royal guard who had been shot, and though he was clutching at the arrow shaft protruding from his side, he too was looking around._

 _"_ _They will pick off the fighters from afar and move for close combat to finish off the rest," Legolas' grandfather predicted. It was punctuated by another whistling arrow that came from the same direction as the first assault. He avoided it with a clever dodge, while Legolas tried his best to find the source of the shooter. His trained eyes settled on a pair of eyes barely visible between the leaves and trees to the northwest of them._

 _He rolled away from his surprised grandfather, drew out the bow that always rested against his back at a turn, rose to his knees, loaded, aimed, and fired. He knew his arrow met its mark by the creature's scream. He dropped to his belly on the ground again and stayed low; there was almost certainly more than one shooter, and where these others were he did not know. He crawled to his_ naneth _._

 _He had just made an impressive kill, but felt strangely detached from everything going on around them. Things were happening so quickly and so incomprehensibly. They were being attacked. By who? The shafts looked orcish, the creature he had felled sounded like it too and now that he thought of it, he could also smell them in the wind. But orcs in the woodland in the daylight during a spell of peace? It was unfathomable._

 _He must have looked bewildered too, because his mother reached for his wrist and gripped it tightly to capture his attention._

 _"_ _This is happening, do you understand?" she told him determinedly._

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The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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#

He is determined to continue.

Legolas thinks on this as he closes his eyes and rides another wave of dizziness, another temptation to slip away.

"It was our kingdom's first recorded interaction with the _uruk-hai_ ," Lastor says thoughtfully. "Fell creatures refined for killing from their miserable predecessors, the _yrch_. They had greater ability for thought, restraint and organization. They had greater tolerance for sunlight. We thought it was an anomaly. We did not understand the full implications of this at the time; further encounters with the _uruk-hai_ later only served to show a wider pattern of their true existence and design."

"I couldn't believe it," Legolas murmurs. "Not just about the _uruk-hai_ but because I'd never been in combat before then. The Queen had to tell me – 'This is happening.' It sounds so simple but it changed things for me."

Brenion nods. "One of the first rules of survival is belief – you have to believe you are in a situation of life and death. Suspend doubt, and then you can commit to action."

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 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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#

 _The actions committed by those around him unfolded quickly, and brutally. The royal guards took down another archer from the woods, while the Queen pointed out a third to Legolas, who knelt up to take the shot while accepting cover from one of the guards. They took down three orc sharpshooters, and found themselves with the barest sliver of time with which to decide what next to do._

 _Legolas' grandfather had one hand upon the thick roots of a tree, and another against the ground. He did not know what the old Silvan heard from them, but he looked up at Legolas grimly, and then the rest of the party._

 _"_ _More are coming," he said. "They mean to cut us off from the village, but the path southeast can be made by running, with some cover. Merilel, you are armed, yes? Take point – you will not get lost and will know how to make way quickly. You can cut down any foes you may come across, though I believe your way may be clear. The Queen, myself and the two royal guards will hold them back for you. Take the injured and go quickly."_

 _The_ elleth _nodded, and was already pulling up the injured royal guard, who blanched at the change in position but bit his lip to keep quiet. He was bleeding badly and did not look well at all._

 _"_ _Do not stop for anything," Legolas' grandfather continued. "The safety of the children must be secured. That includes you, Laeg."_

 _"_ _I can fight," countered the young Prince, even as he knew it for a losing argument._

 _"_ _No one doubts it," his mother said as she drew out her twin white knives in preparation for an attack. "But if you stay behind, none of us can fight properly if we are all trying to protect you."_

 _"_ _The same could be said of the Queen," Legolas pointed out._

 _She shrugged. "I am a soldier same as they, as old and as experienced. And to the enemy I will look an elf like any other. But they will know the son of Thranduil by sight. Run,_ ion _, that is your job now - there is no dishonor in it. And Merilel will need someone with your skills too."_

 _Legolas was not a soldier, was still untrained in moving without questioning the commands of an officer. He held his ground, until his_ naneth _said –_

 _"_ _Go for your mother's sanity,_ ion-nin _," she implored him. "I cannot fight as I should if I am to fear for you here."_

 _He pressed his lips together, but finally nodded._

 _"_ _We will bring aid," he said._

 _"_ _The_ Valar _go with you, my son," she said, and because he could not bear to do it, she did it for the both of them – she turned her back on him and toward the direction of their approaching foes._

 _"_ _Run like the wind,_ Laeg _," his grandfather said, and so he did._

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#

 _Merilel and the children were fruits of this forest, and they ran unencumbered by the darkness of the shadow of the trees, by the uneven ground, by the hanging branches. They moved swiftly even with their short young legs, even with their guide burdened by the weight of a fading soldier. Legolas managed to keep up from the back, but slowed only when he felt a presence gaining on them, coming from the trees._

 _He skidded to a stop, and then made a swift turn and dove at the presence before it could attack him. They rolled, and he realized only when he was huffing and straddling the intruder with his sword raised that it was Orthordir._

 _"_ _Cousin, stop!" yelped the older elf before Legolas, eyes mad with energy and mild panic, could land his death blow._

 _"_ _Orthordir!" the young Prince exclaimed in relief as he scrambled off the guardsman and yanked him up. "We are under attack! Some orcs had gotten past the guards into our borders-"_

 _Merilel appeared from before them with the injured soldier and the wide-eyed children._

 _"_ _You're not supposed to be here!" Orthordir snapped at her, before turning to Legolas. "We cannot guard the whole swathe of forest, your highness. We noticed the intruders and have split up to track them. I was going to warn you back into the village."_

 _"_ _They made contact with us back there," Legolas said in the general direction from which they came. "My_ naneth _, our grandfather and two of the royal guards have engaged while we were tasked with bringing the children and the injured guard back to the village with a call for help."_

 _Orthordir nodded as he absorbed the information and made out a plan. "Merilel – the way you are headed is clear. Keep going with the children and the guard. Legolas – take me to where they are."_

 _"_ _You cannot hope to be a good reinforcement with just two of you," Merilel retorted. "Our orders were unambiguous – the Prince, for the safety of all, must be taken away from danger."_

 _"_ _The tracks indicated only a dozen orcs," Orthordir snapped. "Between grandfather, the Queen, two royal guards and Legolas and myself – we will be more than enough to deal with them. If we do not go now, that might not be the case for whoever you left back there. Returning with help may be too late, when we are enough and can make the difference right now. We're going. Unless the Prince overrides me, which he has every right and power to." He looked at Legolas anxiously. "Or maybe I can go on my own, but it will take me longer to find them."_

 _"_ _Only twelve tracks?" Legolas asked. "We've already downed three. I will return with you."_

 _"_ _Legolas –" Merilel protested._

 _"_ _Take them to safety and find help," the Prince told her, already turning away. He sheathed his weapons so that he could move quicker, and Orthordir beside him did the same. Together, they ran in the direction of danger._

 _Legolas found the run back was harder; the uneven ground felt uphill, the branches snapped at his face and he stumbled at roots as he moved forward. But Orthordir grabbed him and they continued on, back the way Legolas came, following the sounds of waning fighting._

 _Legolas halted at the edges of being detected, compelled by prudence. He crouched between the trees, and pressed Orthordir into the same cautious stance. From the thick foliage, he watched the fighting unfold and saw with abject horror that the battle was ending not because the elves were winning but because they were losing... and that the orcs numbered not twelve but at least twice that number, not counting all the dead that littered the ground._

 _The two royal guards were injured and bloodied, but still standing on either side of his formidable_ naneth _. Legolas' grandfather stood with them with his twin knives raised, also determined to stand his ground._

 _The orcs closed in around them._

 _"_ _Wait!" Orthordir exclaimed from beside Legolas. "Halt!"_

 _The battle stopped, and all the combatants turned warily in the direction of the village's head guardsman. To Legolas' further surprise, his older cousin pulled him up, pressed him forward, tugged at his hair to expose his neck, and placed a knife against it._

 _"_ _Orthordir!" Legolas hissed, "What are you playing at?"_

 _Orthordir ignored him, and stepped forward from the cover of the trees with his 'hostage' cousin. The orcs – and upon closer look, Legolas found they looked odd, more_ edain _-like, less hunched, more lucid, more_ powerful _\- growled and leered and shifted restlessly amongst themselves, for there was never any mistaking Thranduil's son._

 _"_ _I have here that which you seek," Orthordir said, betraying no fear in his voice though Legolas could feel his older cousin shaking. "Stay back!" he commanded, as the orcs drifted closer. "Stay back or I slit his throat."_

 _"_ _And why would that be so objectionable?" hissed one of the orcs in Westron. But whatever menace he managed to convey was obliterated when he was promptly all but swatted away by a mightily-built orc, a true beast of height and bulk, who towered over and outsized all those around him. He led them, and there was no doubting it._

 _"_ _Do not speak of things you know nothing about," he rumbled, in a voice loud and gravely. He stood before the horde, a step ahead of everyone else but not enough to crowd Orthordir._

 _"_ _No one else was to come to any harm," said Orthordir, "that was the agreement."_

 _"_ _My soldiers lie dead on the ground," the leader pointed out. "That was_ not _part of the agreement either."_

 _"_ _You knew as well as I they would not go down easily," Orthordir pointed out. "They had every right to defend themselves against mortal threat in the heat of battle. You knew the cost."_

 _"_ _You should have too," the mighty orc retorted._

 _"_ _You dealt with this filth?" Legolas' grandfather asked, face stricken._

 _"_ _What is the meaning of this, Orthordir?" demanded the Queen. Orthordir pointedly ignored them._

 _"_ _Step away from my Silvan kin," Orthordir told the_ yrch _. "And you shall have your prized Thranduilion. He was more than halfway away from here, you know, fully out of your reach. In the protection of the village and with all the precautions this attack would have resulted in, you would never have had a chance at capturing him. But I return the Elvenking's son to you now, and you need but return the favor."_

 _"_ _Maybe we take you all anyways," hissed one of the lesser orcs, only to be backhanded by his leader._

 _"_ _There are designs," grumbled the larger orc, "our master needs allies for what is to come. Agreements will be kept. But first they must disarm."_

 _"_ _Do as he says, grandfather, quickly," Orthordir urged. The old Silvan, his daughter the Queen, and in deference to her decision the two royal guards with them, lowered their weapons warily. They were not sure what Orthordir had in mind, but he was the only one who seemed to have some sort of plan to move forward and so they did as he asked. The orc leader watched with keen eyes, and commanded his troops in their language. They duly backed away from the four elves._

 _"_ _Approach me," Orthordir said to them._

 _"_ _Orthordir..." their grandfather began._

 _"_ _Hush," said the village guardsman._

 _The royal guards, the Queen and the old Silvan did as they were told and approached him cautiously, still unsure of Orthordir's plans. They did not know if his betrayal was real, if he was only buying time, if he was toying with the orcs and meant to attack them. They did not know. But to approach him was better than being ensnared in a narrowing circle of death._

 _The orc leader made further commands in his language, and his soldiers followed suit; their archers readied bows and arrows and pointed the weapons in the direction of the six elves._

 _"_ _You will give us Thranduil's son," he said in Westron, "and we will return to our homes and let you return to yours."_

 _Orthordir stepped forward with Legolas still in his arms._

 _"_ _Orthordir!" the Queen exclaimed._

 _"_ _What are you doing?" Legolas asked, straining against him._

 _"_ _Cease your fruitless resistance, cousin," Orthordir said. "I have no quarrel with you, but this is the part you must play. The privileges that came with your birthright also come with risk and inherently, a blood debt. You will fall into the hands of the enemy here, one way or another. Look around you. We are outnumbered and fighting will mean almost certain death. But if you go without struggle, all the rest of us may leave unharmed."_

 _Legolas glanced at his mother and grandfather then. Their eyes were wide with disbelief and confusion, the sheer and utter confusion of the betrayed._

This is happening _, he wanted to tell them, but could not. Instead, he stilled his struggling; Orthordir was right – the orcs could overwhelm them all if they fought back, but if he went without complaint and the_ yrch _lived up to their side of the bargain, all the others would go free. Granted, one must not give too much faith upon the word of the enemy, but a chance at life was always better than certain death or captivity._

 _"_ _What did you trade me for?" Legolas asked as he moved now according to Orthordir's instructions. "Why are you doing this, cousin?"_

 _"_ _A Silvan Realm should never have been surrendered to the domination of a Sindar minority," Orthordir said. "It was bad enough that we let ourselves be ruled, but your grandfather's folly in the wars has led us into ruin during the war. His choices decimated wide swathes of our population, created an entire generation of orphans. Changes are afoot, Thranduilion. We must pick better leaders... and perhaps, forge more strategic alliances."_

 _"_ _With the very forces that spilled our people's blood?" Legolas retorted._

 _"_ _Oropher spilled_ my _people's blood, cousin," Orthordir countered, prodding Legolas along._

 _"_ _No!" the Queen exclaimed, and shot forward. The orcs with the arrows tensed._

 _"_ _Stop her!" Legolas ordered, summoning up as much of his father's, perhaps even as much as his imagined version of Oropher's, command as he could muster. Even caught as he was in the lethal arms of his betrayer, the royal guards followed Legolas' will. They reached forward and between the two of them, managed to hold the Queen back._

 _"_ _As the Elvenking's heir I outrank you and everyone else here," Legolas told his mother imperiously. "You will stand down, now."_

 _He refused to see her dead or captured along with him. In this at least, his traitor-cousin was right; if he went peaceably, the others had a chance to go free. Orthordir seemed intent on the preservation of the others, and Legolas noticed that he made no mention at all that the Silvan_ elleth _with them was Thranduil's wife the Queen herself. Maybe the orcs did not know. Maybe Orthordir's betrayal did not go that far. Maybe there was some salvation to him yet, but apparently, the old Silvan amongst them begged to differ._

 _"_ _Traitor!" Legolas and Orthordir's grandfather yelled from behind them, and this Orthordir could not ignore._

 _"_ _You dare call me traitor?" he seethed at the old Silvan. "You dare to call me the traitor when it is you and your generation who so willingly gave our Silvan Realm to Sindar interlopers? They who claimed they wished to adapt our natural ways but look down upon us, make us their servants, make us their gardeners, their dispensable foot soldiers, make us speak their language and follow their mores? They who proclaim wisdom but lead us foolishly to death on distant lands, on a war that should not ever have been our own? And I am the traitor, for actions that remove an undeserving, unearned Sindar rule, with no battles and minimal death? All they want is Thranduilion with whom they can barter with the Elvenking. If Thranduil is not a fool, and if he has love for his son, he will step down. And then we can have a Silvan ruler, with an alliance that will exempt and protect our Woodland from the wars to come."_

 _Legolas saw it in his mind's eye then – Orthordir's seemingly callous references to his losses as an orphan, the "scruples" of his bastardy, his trying on of Legolas' crown, his edged remarks about submission to the Sindar, that unquenchable, small but powerful flame in his eyes... this was an anger long brewing, and finally finding opportunity and fruition._

 _"_ _No traitor then, but a fool!" Legolas' grandfather snapped. "If you think our Woodland could have been exempt from the larger battles of this Earth in Oropher's time or in our future, if you think the scattered collection of tribes that we were before the Elvenking came could have survived the onslaught of an organized evil, if you think your so-called allies will keep to your ill-conceived bargains – that is what you are. A gods-damned fool and you are no kin of mine!"_

 _"_ _You would release them even if they are aware of your treachery?" the orc leader asked Orthordir, as the Silvan village guard slowly walked forward with Legolas in tow._

 _"_ _They are my blood," Orthordir said softly. "I will not be their death. I have no care for myself. I have made my bed, I will lie upon it. Take Thranduil's child now, bargain with the Elvenking with this prize. Do whatever you will, but my people will live. End this quickly, I do not wish for anyone unduly suffering. An ideal opportunity will arise soon, for the Elvenking-"_

 _But before he could reveal anything about the upcoming, secret arrival of Thranduil that up to that point was privy only to the Queen's family, Legolas' grandfather jumped forward, and with a knife he had concealed in his hair, he stabbed Orthordir – thrusting the small, sharp, shining blade into the traitor's back – tilted upward, meant to go between the ribs, meant to hit precious organs irreparably, meant to kill quickly._

 _Meant to silence forever._

 _The orc leader had presence of mind to prevent his soldiers from firing or recklessly attacking the old Silvan; their prized princely hostage was in the line of fire and they needed Legolas alive with which to bargain. He was yelling at them, and they did nothing but tense and crouch in ready positions as Orthordir's dead, empty body fell to the ground at the Silvan prince's feet._

 _Legolas' grandfather and unarmed mother and two royal guards inched closer to him in defensive positions, practically having nothing but their very bodies with which to protect their prince._

 _The orc leader stepped right in front of the smaller, slighter Legolas, who looked up at him defiantly. He was still armed with his bow and arrow and a long sword, but he did not bother counting the dulled, practice white knives he had been training with._

 _"_ _What was the dead elf saying about the Elvenking?" he asked Legolas in Westron._

 _"_ _I don't know," Legolas said, matching his enemy's language. "I do not know the traitor very well after all, apparently. What would I know of information he meant to give you?"_

 _The orc leader's nose flared in annoyance at his impertinence. Hus eyes raked across the five living elves before him._

 _"_ _Take them all," the orc leader commanded his troops, "Alive."_

 _With force meant to subdue rather than kill, the two dozen or so bodies stepped forward, blocking all avenues of escape, closing in on all hope. Hands reached for them, hands over hands over hands, bodies heavy and warm crowded them. There was no space to fight, barely any space to breathe._

 _A particularly eager orc managed to reach out for Legolas' neck and gripped it, tight. Another, with all the force of a body built for war, hit the prince on the face, and the quarters were so tight he couldn't even fall to the ground with its momentum. He was still dimly aware when another armored fist found the back of his head, and he turned and twisted drunkenly to find its source and defend himself, only to be hit from another corner, and another, and another - until he knew no more._

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The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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"I did not know it was your grandfather who killed the traitor," Lastor says after Legolas recounted what he could recall of the incident that resulted in his capture. "The testimony we gleaned from you after your rescue was sparse. You managed to tell us of Orthordir's betrayal and that he had been killed. Further investigations we conducted afterwards yielded a handful of his accomplices amongst the village guards, a group of like-minded Silvan rebels who let the orcs pass unencumbered over the borders to where you were. But this is new information, that he had been killed not in a general melee, but by your grandfather's hand, in an attempt to conceal the information of the Elvenking's impending arrival."

"And so we also have an answer as to why the Prince and our elves were held captive and tortured in Gundabad," says Brenion thoughtfully. "They initially wanted Legolas as a bargaining chip against his father. While this is not unexpected, what is less expected is that they were seeking alliances for their larger plans – whatever those plans might have been at that point in time. They found it in a disenfranchised Silvan village guard. And when they scented important information that Orthordir was about to reveal before his death, the _yrch_ took the entire party to retrieve the rest of that information from the other elves instead."

"I should have said all of these things before," Legolas says shakily, swallowing a growing lump in his throat. He felt irrationally close to tears. He felt woefully inadequate, and suddenly apprehensive that the information he withheld in his mind all these years could have been useful, could have saved lives, could have kept their Realm from falling into shadow.

"I should have been more precise," he says, and his hands curl into impotent fists that he can only pound against he sides of his bed. He wishes he could slam it against walls, and break them, and punish himself...

"I should have realized the importance of the things I knew," he rambles on restlessly, agitated, " But I don't know if I'd just forgotten to say them or if I'd actually forgotten them and couldn't say even if I wished to, or tried to forget them or if I meant to withhold them for it did no good to anyone, what with... what with all the subjects dead. I don't know. I should have said..."

Maenor frowns at his uncharacteristic display, and reaches forward with a hand to his forehead. "You are worsening again, Legolas. I think it is time for some medicine and some rest."

The Prince shakes his head in frustration and pushes himself up to sit. He does not wish to remain lying down. He does not wish for rest, or to risk falling back asleep, to drift away again and forget.

"Give me nothing my lord, I beg you," he gasps, and reaches a shaking hand to press against the suddenly burning wound on his side. "We've all waited this long for me to speak of things I should have let known long ago. Good gods." He groans in both pain and self disappointment. "Good gods, if I'd only known, if I'd only said something sooner. We would have come to an earlier understanding of the greater strategy and intelligence powering our foes. We might have had a better chance of beating back the rise of the evil in Angmar, perhaps even the creeping darkness in the south, and of understanding how all these dangers might have something to do with each other-"

"You were a child, Legolas," Maenor tells him gently, and the healer finds himself helping the younger elf to some position of ease, leaning on the back of his bed. "You were a child. Tortured and near-death, in shock, grieving on top of everything. I tended you then as you recall, and even I do not know how you managed to survive, what reserves you'd found just to return to us. You were not expected to live, much less talk."

But Legolas is not of any mind to be soothed, had barely even hears him. "I should have said," he murmurs mournfully, tossing his head from side to side as the memories came, "I should have talked. I should have done better..."

#

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 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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 _"_ _You'd better do as I say and speak naught of your mother. They do not seem aware of it. That cursed Orthordir spared us that at least."_

 _His grandfather's softly uttered, Silvan words drifted into his hearing, and they were like threads by which he could cling, and climb from the dark depths of unconsciousness. He fought to open his eyes._

 _"_ _There you are," his_ naneth _said grimly when he blinked up at her. He found that night had fallen, but even the dim moonlight burned his sight and hurt his head. He grimaced, and clamped his mouth shut at being sick._

 _"_ _Open," she commanded, and he knew not of what she was referring to until he felt something leafy and fragrant beneath his nose, pressed against his lips. He did as instructed, and his mother shoved a leaf into his mouth. "Chew."_

 _He did, and soon felt the soothing effects of the potent herb. He opened his eyes again, and managed to keep them open this time with only a dull, bearable headache. He was lying on the cold ground, with his mother and grandfather on either side of him. They were in a camp of sorts from the bustling sound around them, but the scents were... unfamiliar and unwelcome._

Orcs _, he remembered. They'd been captured by orcs._

 _He scrambled to sit up, to limited success. His hands were bound by layers of rough, thick ropes at the wrists, which were in turn tethered by a short, single strand to ropes around his neck. Sitting up would have been difficult even if he wasn't suffering a head injury, which made the world spin. His mother and grandfather, similarly bound, had to help him the rest of the way. He soon found himself sitting up and leaning against a tree - winded, shaky and reeling, but settling quickly._

 _He looked around him, bewildered more than afraid, though fear followed quickly enough. About two dozen orcs surrounded them, milling about a camp. The woods were thinned out here, and Legolas realized they've been on the move and were now at the edges of the woodland. Save for a handful of orc guards standing near them and sneering at him now that he was awake, they – himself, his mother and grandfather, the two injured royal guards in their company - were being left alone._

 _"_ _You remember where you are?" his grandfather asked him sternly._

 _"_ _Yes," Legolas replied, and elaborated because he knew it was a test of the extent of his head injury, "We were training in the woods and set upon by the enemy, with aid from the traitor Orthordir. I understand I am to be used in bargaining with_ adar _. Wwhere are they taking us?"_

 _"_ _We do not understand their dark speech," said the Silvan Queen, "But they break into Westron once in a while. I can also tell we are headed northwest. We are likely on our way to Gundabad."_

 _Legolas winced. A student of history would know the mountain fortress was no place for the Firstborn. Gundabad was sacred to the dwarves and strategically contested by the orcs – thus a place that has been under siege by both parties alternately for ages, and certainly nowhere an elf may wish to venture no matter which of the two held it. Since the Second Age, the mountain has been believed to be held by a small population of orcs who have survived their dark master's defeats and retreated there._

 _"_ _There will be no hope of escape for us if we get there," Legolas murmured. "Two dozen orcs now will be many times that in their stronghold."_

 _"_ _There is no hope for escape here either," his mother said grimly, and Legolas took better stock of each of their party. He was alive and relatively well, but in no fit for a fight or for running. Neither were the two injured royal guards, one of which looked to be in particularly dire health. But his grandfather and mother looked almost unharmed._

 _"_ You _are well enough to have a chance," he pointed out softly. "You should take it and run. They know I am the Elvenking's son, they will keep me alive. I will be unharmed even if you leave me here."_

More or less _, he thought to himself, wryly. He was probably not going to be unscathed, but he had every belief the orcs would endeavor to keep him alive, at least for a little bit of time._

 _"_ _Once in safety you can call for help," Legolas added._

 _She shook her head at him dismissively, "I could have lost them in the trees if I made my attempt deeper in the woods, but there is no more hoping for that here in the open. And... I was never going to leave you, unconscious in their hands while we were journeying out of the forest."_

 _"_ _You should have," Legolas told her._

 _"_ _Perhaps." She shrugged. "And yet I still would never have done it. And it is too late to run now. As for help... it will come, eventually. One does not misplace the Elvenking's son for very long with no one knowing or doing nothing about it. Merilel will make arrangements and she will have shall we say, a wealth of assets soon enough."_

 _They did not say it aloud in fear of unwelcome ears, but Thranduil's impending arrival would come with more royal guards, and so more skilled rescuers. They all glanced at their captors warily in remembrance of the secret they kept, and lowered their voices and made their exchanges even more discreet._

 _"_ _A rescue party will do no good in an orc stronghold like Gundabad," Legolas' grandfather murmured, while he pretended to fuss with his boots. "Whether or not they are coming for us, the real question is – if they will arrive in time. If they can catch us on the road, we can hope for rescue. Otherwise, there is little hope."_

 _"_ _You want us to delay on the road," Legolas guessed, "and give our rescuers a chance at catching up."_

 _His grandfather nodded. "Pretend continuing infirmity, Laeg. Necessitate assistance in walking, slow down our pace. They will do it for their prized hostage. We can also sabotage the water, food and fire stores they have been making us carry. Spill them, break them, make them pause to collect anew for the journey ahead." He looked at his fellow elves gravely. "They may even pause along the road to punish us – which will also buy us time."_

 _"_ _An escape attempt will also be a cause for delay," said one of the royal guards, thoughtfully. "A diversion here at camp can allow a good runner to make it to the trees, where there will be some time for concealment. If our enemies conduct a search, we buy even ore time for our rescuers to come upon us on the road."_

 _"_ _I know the kind of diversion you have in mind," the Silvan Queen said darkly. "The fighting kind. The kind that will get whoever is doing it killed while someone else runs. And when our enemies retrieve the runner – for they will, given our distance from the thicker woodland - death will be meted there too."_

 _"_ _That we are in this situation is our failure," said the other royal guard, who was pale and weakening from the injury he had taken in the original fighting, his tone mournful but eyes aflame. "It is not only our duty to try, but for the peace of my fea, it will be my salvation to try. My lord..." he was trembling, but had presence of mind to address only Legolas as the royal and not his mother the Queen, "_ Hir-nin _. I am dying already, I know this to be true. Let me find salvation however way I can. I will be a diversion for whoever will run. I may not look like much, but I will give our foes such a handful, I swear it. They will look no other way until our runner is well away."_

 _"_ _And I will be the runner," offered the first guard who had spoken, the hale one._

 _"_ _No, I will be the one to run," countered Legolas' grandfather confidently. "I know the woods best. I will keep them in circles looking. I will steal days of their lives, looking. I may even have a chance at real escape."_

 _"_ _Do not play me for a fool,_ adar _," the Silvan Queen told her father darkly. "I am a child of this forest and a soldier, same as you. You know we are far from the thick foliage that can offer true concealment. You've seen the speed, skill and strategy of our foes. Running here and now will result in capture, and they will not be merciful when you are found. There will be no mercy for any of these actions, none." She looked at the royal guards. "There will only be death."_

 _"_ _All we want is a chance for our liege to come to aid," said the healthy one, the one who had volunteered to run. He looked at his fellow guard pointedly. They have been sharing this detail and this duty of years and could speak without words._

 _Without waiting for permission from the very royals they served, without further thought or deliberation for themselves, the two royal guards did their one rebellion._

 _The injured one dove at the two orc guards closest to him with a battle cry. The other ran for the cover of the nearby tree line. He was out of sight even before Legolas could take another breath._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	7. No Escape

**hi everyone!**

Thanks to all who are joining me on this journey! It's a tough read and a tough write, so I am grateful to everyone who is sharing with me the world's most valuable commodity - time :)

I am especially grateful to the reviewers who help propel me and this story forward. I cannot emphasize how much I appreciate you sharing your thoughts, from the briefest of reactions and encouragements to long reviews, I thank you all from the bottom of my writer's hungry heart :)

I have caught up to personal responses by now, I think. To those unable to send signed reviews (and to whom I therefore cannot respond and personally express my thanks), guests and anonymouses and those who leave their names without signing in: **thank you so much as well :)** But if you ever feel inclined to sign in when you review, be warned - many will tell you my replies are long-winded, spoilery, and sometimes unnecessarily rambling haha ;)

Anyways, the next chapters are going to be brutal. I thought I could keep to a T rating (like those live action Disney movies that show violence with no blood to keep to larger demographics and potential revenues lol), but as I progressed I was wrong (so wrong...). I hope I do not lose any readers but sometimes these things write themselves, and the more I was weighed by it, the less I was inclined to keep forcing a T.

At any rate, constructive comments and criticism are always treasured. Without further ado, Chapter 7:

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 **# # #**

 **7: No Escape**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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In the slim space between one breath and another, something changes. In the space of between one heartbeat and the next, a blink and the one that follows, the barest sliver of a moment...

He realizes, heart-crushingly, that he cannot remember their names. He cannot recall the names of the royal guards who had given their bodies all for the barest chance that he might be rescued.

He gasps with the epiphany of it. His sucking breaths stutter, and his whole body shakes, violently, with his impotent self-anger.

 _What a worthy prince to serve_ , he thinks derisively, _what a prince worthy of sacrifice._

He searches his mind desperately, for some hint of remembrance. But just as surely as he'd lost the most painful memories of those dark days, he'd also lost memories of the acts that should have been honored. He presses his hands to his head, rakes his fingers through his hair. There has to be more in his mind.

Two names. Two names.

He is just looking for two names. It is infinitesimal really, of all the education he's had and all the languages he's studied, all that he knows of the world... and he cannot retrieve two names from the depths of his mind.

He feels Maenor's warm hands on his shoulders, and sees the healer's worried face crowd his line of vision.

"Legolas," he calls out gently, giving the soldier prince a slight shake. "Legolas?" The healer turns to the two ministers with them. "Help me lie him back down."

They move, but Legolas stiffens, and resists. They try harder, but he only fights them more. He jerks away from their hold, and though he cannot help the brief, pained hoarse cry the sudden movement inspired in his inflamed side, he triumphs. He is released, and while he cannot look them in the eye and has to turn away, he finds his voice.

"The ruse worked," he says, words slurring. "In more ways than one, it worked. The guard who had caused the diversion was predictably killed, but he'd done as he promised." He rakes his fingers over his hair, pulls at them at the edges, lets it smart, does it again. "They'd beaten him to death, but he did as promised. They bashed his head and hit his body repeatedly even when he was barely moving, even when he was already clearly dead, and all manner of blood and bone and things scattered at our feet like some mad offering, but he did as he promised."

Legolas sucks in a stuttering sob, "Good gods. I do not even remember his name, that poor, lost soldier. I do not even remember his name." He covers his face in shame, but wipes at his eyes and continues, "The diversion purchased for the other guard the chance to go into the trees, where he managed to evade capture for over the length of a day. We kept camp while they looked for him. They returned a day after he ran, and he was, he was..."

No amount of wiping could stop Legolas' leaking, streaming, flooding eyes. "He was severely injured but still alive, bucking and kicking, right to the very end of his strength. He would lose consciousness and wake up swinging. He no longer knew where he was and who he was with, he just kept fighting. He even fought us when we tried our best to tend him."

"The orcs let you tend your wounded?" Lastor asks.

"Only insofar as it did not derail them," Legolas replies. "They offered us nothing but the barest food and drink. We had to tend our injuries with whatever we had. If the _uruk-hai_ noticed the Queen or my grandfather stumbling along our path and collecting and secreting away a medicinal leaf, root or fruit here or there, they did not say or do anything to prevent it. But we did these things discreetly so as not to court their ire, and hid whatever we could find in the folds of our clothes, in our boots, in the braids of our hair, anywhere possible upon our persons. We knew we would need stores for what was to come."

"This will be useful in training our soldiers in survival situations," Brenion says. "Your Silvan kin's knowledge of the usable foliage must have been invaluable while you were in captivity. We would need to incorporate this into the training regime."

"And secreted pockets into soldiers' clothing should be coordinated with the Quartermaster," Lastor adds. "This is good, Legolas. These are the kinds of things we were hoping your recovered memories could yield – things that could help us in the future, not just answers from the painful past."

Legolas looks up at him with a sudden, roiling anger. It energizes him, at least, but with an unmistakable edge in his voice he says, "I and my dead are only glad to be so useful, my lord."

"I never lied to you about my objectives here, Captain," Lastor says bluntly, catching his tone. "If I knew this was possible and I had my way, we would have had a debriefing like this long ago. I cannot fix the past. I cannot exorcise your demons. I can only move forward."

"But you sure can be an ass-hat about it all," Brenion points out. "All the Prince means to say I think – is tread lightly."

Legolas gives him a quick nod of gratitude and continues. "They let us tend him. They let us fight for his life. They let him recover for two harrowing days, enough for him to regain his senses, enough for us to have some hope for his survival. But _naneth_ had warned – expect no mercy and we should have known the blind eye they turned to the aid we had given our kinsman was by design. It was a cruelty. If we knew... if we only knew then, we would have taken his life ourselves."

"What did they do?" Lastor asks quietly.

 _What didn't they do_ , Legolas thinks bitterly.

"They took him from us," he replies, voice barely above a whisper. "They stripped him of his clothes. They tied him, arms up, to a pole stuck to the ground." He realizes belatedly that he is lifting his own arms up shakily, and forces them back down to his sides. "He was naked in every way, in the freezing winter in the open air in the daylight. You c-c-can see every wound like that, every cut, every bruise, every evil d-d-done to his body. They did not kill him outright, I wish they did. They barely let him sleep, or slip away into unconsciousness. They endeavored very much to keep him awake. They endeavored very much to let him feel... and good gods, how he screamed."

His hands drift up to his ears, and it tortures him now, that sound, like a rip across time and space. It tore across the air, carried over the mountains and shook the trees then, and finds him now. He cannot remember the guard's name, or his face. But he remembers this – the guard's screams, and his brutalized body in brazen display in the winter daylight.

"They made us watch," Legolas says, and he can hear his own voice, over loud and muffled from how he covered his ears. The louder it is, the less he will hear of that ghostly scream, resurrected after all these centuries. "To close the eyes, to turn away, was more punishment for him. They tortured the guard, but they were breaking us – me, _naneth_ , my grandfather. They thought they could break non-soldiers, I think – a young prince, an elven woman, an old farmer. They tried to make us tell the rest of what Orthordir was going to say before he was killed. I nearly spoke of _adar's_ visit. I nearly betrayed my own father when, when..."

He takes a deep breath. "The depths of their cruelty is unimaginable. They... they ah... they took his, his skin. They started with the thigh, where there was plenty to be, to be had. They never cut him enough to kill though, because b-b-because..."

He moves his hands from his ears to run over his face and cover his mouth. He feels ill, very, very ill, but the truths of his past pervade his mind, fill him, drown him until he overflows, and they come out of his mouth in words and air, and unavoidable sickness. Maenor barely makes it in time to turn him to his side, so that he may soil the floor and not his bed. It strains his wounded side, and he feels stiches snap, feels his wound weeping, dripping blood and infection on his waist and hip. His eyes leak, his stomach empties, he drowns, he overflows. He is half-sobbing when he finishes, and he knows he finds his voice only because he is looking away from his breathless listeners. He stares at the ground, and a string of saliva keeps him strangely tethered to it.

"Because they did not want the m-m-mmmeat to rot," he whispers. "They kept him alive in the cold, and t-t-took him little by little. C-c-cooked p-p-arts of h-him while he stood alive on the side of the fire, able to watch and s-s-smell himssself cooked in p-p-ppppppppieces..."

"Damn it all," Maenor suddenly mutters, spotting the blood and pus leaking from Legolas' wounded side.

He hoists Legolas up and lays him on his back, and swats away the ailing Prince's half-hearted, straining interruptions. Maenor tugs at his sleeping robes and the bandages beneath them, exposing the festering wound within.

The smell of blood and rot is powerful and pungent, and it reaches Legolas' nose – the smell of his own sickness, of his own failing body. He gasps and flails, as the smell fights to pull him into dark depths.

"They said at first that if we spoke they would stop hurting him," Legolas moans, knowing where he was and when he was, all the while seeing that broken, bloodied, skinned body of his memories. The figure became less and less of a person, and it trembled from the cold and from the shock of the violence it suffered.

 _Meat_... it was meat, not a person.

"We held our tongues-" he cries out in pained surprise as Maenor prods at his side, and his voice is thin and fading when he returns to himself, "And when he became unsalvageable," Legolas gasps, "they said they would speed his passing if we spoke. It was when I almost did."

Lastor looks at him warily. "You were a child, and I cannot imagine such experiences for one so young. The temptation to capitulate must have been truly overpowering. But what stopped you?"

#

# # #

 _Eryn Galen_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _"_ _You stop right there,_ hir-nin _," the Silvan Queen told her son, sternly. "Do not even think of it. Do not invalidate his sacrifice. If he does not speak even as they break his body – you do not get to, just to ease your conscience. Just for your own comfort. You do not have that right."_

 _She earned a backhand from one of the orcs for her trouble, for they sensed even if they did not speak her dialect, that she was dissuading Legolas from speaking. The Queen's father hissed at her disapprovingly, as she lay on the ground with her lip bleeding._

 _But she had sensed Legolas waver, and because she spoke of it, the orcs sensed it too. Two of them pulled the young prince to his feet, and tugged him toward the broken body tied to a pole in the middle of the encampment. He struggled against them, but he could not shake their grip so he ceased, and let himself be pressed up to a hairsbreadth away from the royal guard's dismembered body and unrecognizable face._

 _He met the royal guard's half-lidded gaze. They were lost in pain, lost in abject suffering, lost, lost, there was no word in the world for his agony. He was, Legolas realized, long_ gone _._

 _He made his own decision then._

 _He lowered his head, slumped his shoulders, loosened his limbs, let his own suffering show. But the fruit of suffering and hurt was not only defeat. It also bred anger and indignation. And power._

 _He collected his reserves._

 _And the moment he felt his captors lower their guard and wait for him to speak, he struck. He used all the limited avenues available to him. His head he smacked as hard as he could against one of the orcs holding him, while he elbowed another, and kneed at one more. He could barely move his hands, tied as they were at the wrists, but he managed to steal a knife from one of his still-stunned enemies._

 _And he did with it the only thing that he could._

 _He plunged the knife into the royal guard's heart, and twisted to ensure a speedy and unavoidable passing._

 _He cried out in agonized, tormented triumph, until his breath was stolen by a knife to his back._

 _"_ _No!" he heard his mother yell from behind him._

 _And there was a similar, horrified chorus in dark speech, for someone had unthinkingly and hastily stabbed at their prized hostage._

 _Legolas staggered away from the elven corpse, feeling a deep, burning sensation spread from the small of his back and flower outward and deeper, outward and deeper, until all there was was that fiery pain. His right leg shook as he stepped upon it, so he quickly took weight upon his left except it too, failed him. It folded, and he fell to his knees, slammed to his side, plunged into another oblivion, another new low, another new, dark depth._

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _Legolas woke suddenly and powerfully, like a soul shoved irreverently into a borrowed, raw body. His flesh felt undersized, like it could burst at the seams from all the content of him. He was too large, too incandescent, much too much of a being to force into a broken shell..._

 _He tried to lift his head but it was too heavy, and when he opened his eyes and his blurry vision sharpened, he found himself looking down upon his own nakedness. It jolted him, and he blinked hurriedly to clear the webs from his eyes and his mind. His own body beneath him sharpened and dulled, sharpened and dulled, and he fought for purchase in the dizzying blur._

 _He jerked and realized he couldn't move. He realized he was trussed up, hands bound at the wrists, and his arms stretched over his head. The whole length of his body was bound to a pole stuck to the ground..._

 _The world tilted, and he wondered fleetingly if the royal guard he saw bound and tortured this way, the elf whose life he had claimed to save him from his misery – could it have been none other but himself?!_

 _He let out a strangled sound, like that of a trapped animal, which is exactly what he was, in almost every conceivable way. His voice was trapped in his dry, tight throat. The thoughts that his voice would have released were trapped in his confused mind. His mind and soul were trapped in his pained body. His body was trapped in these ropes, strapped to a pole, stuck in this nightmare._

 _The face of an orc blocked his view of his lower body. It sneered up at him cruelly. It had a face scarred and twisted by the evil of its corrupted creation, the travails of its tortured soul etched in every cut, every scar, every wrinkle, every fold of his earthly body._

 _He held in one massive, clawed_ paw _a half-empty piss bucket, with frosted sides from the freezing cold. Legolas pieced together quickly what had woken him from his deep sleep, a realization made only clearer when the rest of its contests were tossed up at his face. It was ice cold and repugnant. He sputtered and coughed in the vain hope that he swallowed nothing, and could remove as much of it from his person as he could._

 _"_ _I wouldn't worry about it too much, princeling," the orc sneered, "it's yours, after all." He backed out of Legolas' sight, and it allowed the Woodland Prince some time with which the information sunk in. He looked down at himself again, at the bodily waste that trailed and dried down his legs, mixed with blood, mixed with grime, mixed with mud. He paid particular attention to his thighs, and wondered if they'd taken a chunk out of it to eat. He was so cold and it was so numb he could not feel it, but it looked intact. He frowned in confusion and his thinking crystallized._

 _The royal guard really had been tortured before him. This new torture was all his own, and their captors apparently had something else in mind._

 _"_ _This is happening," his mother's voice drifted into his knowing, and she drew out for him some strength with which to finally lift his head and take better stock of the world around him._

 _He was in a dark, dank prison of jagged rock from the ground to the walls to the ceiling above. There was no window or hole, nothing by which any natural light could enter, though somehow a small breeze and the brutal cold found its way through. There was windless, dead, still cold all around, the kind that stayed, the kind that never wavered, the kind that went deep into the bones._

 _He strained his eyes; wood-elves had good sight even in the dark, and though there was no natural light, there was a dull glow in this prison by which he could discern shape and movement. He was alone with an orc in a barred cell, which faced a narrow hallway lit on one corner by a flickering torch. Across the way were other barred cells. One held his grandfather, who looked like he was contemplating the make of his prison door. The cell beside grandfather's held Legolas'_ naneth _, and her face was pressed between sticks of iron for it was the closest she could get to her son._

 _"_ _See?" the orc said to the two elves watching him toy with Legolas. "Your precious prince lives. For how long and in what condition will be up to you. Give us the information we seek, and he will be spared further suffering. Perhaps you will do for your beloved young royal that which you did not do for that poor lowly guard."_

 _"_ _Say nothing," Legolas rasped, "Not for me." He swallowed down a cough, but his dry throat had nothing to draw any sliver of moisture of comfort from, and he coughed all the harder. The rough sound of his breathing dominated the room._

 _He had uttered the words in Silvan, but his captor surmised what he meant, and the order earned for him a thick, large warm paw resting lightly but unmistakably threateningly against his upper thigh. He could barely feel his leg, but this touch all but branded him._

 _"_ _I will claim this body. I will break him from the inside. I will tear into him so deeply I will reach his heart, and he will be in such singular torment that my actions will rent this flesh from his soul. He will wish for death, but he will not find it. I will keep him alive for the whims of my master. His mind will have to fly away, just to escape. That precious_ fea _you all hold so dearly will flee, abandon his broken shell. I will leave nothing untouched, nothing uncorrupted. He will emerge from where I take him forever changed. He will be robbed. He will be damaged. He will be marked. I will take from him his purity, his innocence, his very will to survive. I will tear him apart..._

 _"_ _Unless you speak." The orc took his hand away. "You will have until daybreak to decide. And then I take him. Make no mistake – what I mean to do will steal his very soul."_

 _Legolas' body trembled in anger and cold, for he was young yet but understood what the orc meant, of what_ that _particular brand of torture could entail, and of what it could mean for him. But he took a deep breath, and did the only thing he could to convey his defiance._

 _He spat down at the face of the orc beneath him._

 _The creature wiped at his spittle and laughed up at him. He was still laughing as he stepped out of Legolas' cell, and still laughing as he walked away. The sound faded with the beast's mighty footfalls._

 _Legolas listened to him go, and waited until all sense of the enemy has vanished from his consciousness. There was a sudden intimacy here, between his mother, his grandfather and himself. He was naked, but not just in body. He was soul-bared._

 _He looked up and met his mother's steely gaze. Her eyes glinted, catching even the barest flickering light of the struggling torch in the hall. Legolas took a deep, shaky breath. All resistance melts in front of one's mother, for there were no adults in their all-seeing eyes. There were no soldiers, no heroes. He was just always, simply her child. As long as she was around, he could be a child. HE could be vulnerable. He could be afraid._

 _He was afraid._

 _"_ _I will not let them have you," she swore under her breath._

 _They looked at each other for a long moment and he nodded. Their gaze was broken only by the sharp sound coming from the direction of Legolas' grandfather's cell._

 _He had opened it._

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

# # #

#

"It was easy to open for a farmer and carpenter with good hands," Legolas murmurs as he tells the story of his grandfather's escape. "It was a crude build and an elf who built his own house from the ground up was able to make quick work of it."

He is upon his back again, a decidedly more agreeable position than his previous one though he is not of any mood to admit it. The salves and poultices and the gods knew what else that Maenor had slathered upon his wounds are working to ease his pain and clear his thinking too.

"Gardening, farming and carpentry," Lastor says thoughtfully, "Your memories are yielding a very interesting bag of tricks for our soldiers to learn how to survive and evade until rescue, or how to escape when captured, Captain."

"But then sometimes neither are possible," says Legolas quietly. "Lives were lost buying us time on the road but still we were not waylaid long enough for rescue to come catch up. When I was stabbed after I k- after what I did to the guard, we were delayed further. _Naneth_ said we camped while she and my grandfather tended me and until the _uruk-hai_ were sure I would survive. I was unconscious and lost days from there and on the road to Gundabad. If my mother and grandfather found any opportunity for escape upon that road, they did not take it in favor of tending to me." He gains an edge on his voice, one that surprises even himself. He's never begrudged the lack of speedy rescue before, never thought to ask the precise cause of delay until now. "We bought days for ourselves on the road but s-s-still, no rescue came."

Maenor winces. "By protocol, the Elvenking never travels without his royal physician and so, I was in that traveling party."

"While the running of the stronghold was left to the rest of the King's ministers," nods Brenion.

"It is only a handful of days' ride to your grandfather's homestead, Legolas," the healer continues. "But your father gets busy as you know, and there is always someone asking for a moment here, a moment there... small delays mounting on some form of business or other. Such little things we never thought to truly set aside for as far as we knew, we were fetching you from _vacation_."

"Furthermore," says Lastor, "from the investigations we conducted in the aftermath of everything, we found out what happened in the village when Merilel and the children returned. She assembled what help was possible immediately, but it was scant, _hir-nin_. The village guards and its experienced soldiers were slim in that area, and without the more seasoned ones to lead the way forward – Orthordir and your grandfather among them – there was little they could do. They wisely did not confront two dozen uruks on their own. But they sent riders out to the nearest settlements to gather soldiers for aid. One of course, went out in the direction of the Elvenking's stronghold. He was... a volunteer. We uncovered his deception later – that he had been one of Orthordir's peers, a traitor himself, and tarried in his mission. Another soldier was also sent to scout and keep track of where your captors were bringing you. He was... he was one of them too."

"All our chances to save you were felled by small deceptions," Brenion says. "Your _adar_ had a hard time looking upon Silvans too kindly after that."

"We met the traitorous elf sent by the village a third of the way into our journey," says Maenor. "We were a small party. The King was traveling without his usual trappings for it was a personal trip, one he wished to make quietly and stealthily. He was just an elf in his forest, visiting with family. When we received news of your capture, _aran-nin_ sent the fastest rider back to the stronghold for proper reinforcements. The rest of us rode like the wind to get to you."

Maenor has his own painful memories of those days. It was he who had to tend Legolas' broken, brutalized body when the prince was finally retrieved from captivity, and it was he who witnessed closely Thranduil's unimaginable torment. But strangely, what he has always found most painful was thinking of how Thranduil was _before_ he knew of his wife and son's capture.

Every piece of business that delayed him from travel was a nuisance that he handed hurriedly and mercilessly, because he had somewhere better to be. When they were finally on the road, he kept his usual royal composure and reserve, but his eyes were restless, excited. He had a small, tight smile resting on his lips.

 _"_ _I've not vacationed in a long while, Maenor,"_ the healer remembered Thranduil saying to him at one point of their journey _. "But the Queen had conveyed such alarming news that I knew I must hasten."_

 _"_ _What news is that, my king?"_

 _"_ _Our son is turning native," Thranduil said fondly, "and that if I mean to retain some semblance of the Sindar in him, I had better come quickly."_

Maenor aches for that long lost lightness and hope.

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _"_ _You cannot hope of escaping and bearing me with you," Legolas grunted disapprovingly at his grandfather, "I am a burden, grandfather. Almost deadweight, I-" he clamped his mouth shut and bit back a cry of pain._

 _The old Silvan had broken into his cell, and labored to do so under Legolas' hushed but urgent protestations to set his_ naneth _free first, or perhaps just to leave him and go because he was taking too long and had precious little time. The old Silvan didn't listen, and Legolas knew he wouldn't but he had to try. His own mother knew too; she stood by the barred door of her own prison, alert and ready but silently resigned, simply watching as the old Silvan picked at the locks, entered the cell, and cut down the ropes that held Legolas before lowering him gently to the ground._

 _The stab wound to Legolas' back flared, but he quickly realized there were surprisingly more tormenting pains to be had. Pins and needles assaulted his senses at varying points of his body in different intensities, some all but frying his nerves. The change in position from hanging upright for so long was harrowing._

 _He curled his body but found no relief. He straightened, kicked and bucked, but everything hurt all the same. He fisted his hands and pressed them to his mouth, suppressing whimpers and moans that he hated hearing from himself, that he did not recognize in himself, that he nevertheless indulged in for it was better than simply lying back and suffering._

 _Dimly, he felt his grandfather place a cloak over his jerking, trembling, cramping body. And with his adroit hands and strong fingers, the older elf kneaded at Legolas' body and slowly massaged it back to proper feeling and life._

 _"_ _How is he?" he heard his mother ask, her voice low but her tone anxious._

 _"_ _The stab wound heals as it should, thank the gods," said the old Silvan as he worked. "But we must not take for granted the damage caused by seemingly small things. He is cold, dangerously so. And I worry for the strain upon his body presented by the extended period of time he was trussed up thus. There is already some damage to the shoulders and arms."_

 _"_ _D-d-damage to m-m-my arms?" The statement, coupled by the older elf's continuing ministrations, immediately had Legolas more alert, though he still trembled and jerked beneath his grandfather's cloak. The Silvan settled him to lie upon his side, and even took a disproportionate amount of time tidying his golden hair, tucking away stray strands from his face. Legolas closed his eyes for a long moment just to bask in the small, glorious comfort of it._

 _"_ _You worry for your prowess, Laeg," said his grandfather gently, "as you should. But be wary of more pressing things. An unnatural position forced upon the body for an extended period of time can result in muscle damage - perhaps even death - of such an extent that can be lethal to you. This damage yields substances not meant for your body to consume and process. It is poison inside, do you understand? These substances will course through your blood, spread, kill you from the inside out, bear you away organ by organ. The detestable_ yrch _may not intend to kill you but by incident, they just might."_

 _The old Silvan lowered his face to the younger elf's. His eyes were deep and sorrowful, and he seemingly aged before Legolas' bleary gaze._

 _"_ _I cannot escape bearing you with me, as you said, my grandson. I am no fool. I wish I was. But I had to give you some relief, a chance to heal, even for just a few hours before they return. And I tell you this so that you may also tell your captors. If they are dumb they will not listen, but I think you've seen as I have, that at least some of them are not. They want to keep you alive – that is both your blessing and curse, at the moment. Watch out for fever, the speeding of your heart, if you should cease relieving your body of waste. Understand your body, Laeg. I know it is hard to parse the feeling of one torture from another but," and this he said with a grim smile, "you are a Silvan. You can always take a beating. You will know if you fade with something else."_

 _He backed away slightly, and for a surreal moment, Legolas realized his grandfather had started braiding his hair._

 _"_ _I am winding various herbs into your braids," he said, "for your pain. Suck on them, as needed. You will not have use of your arms, but with some effort you can reach these with your mouth. I am sorry that this is all I can offer. Sorrier than I ever have been in my long life. But I need to leave – I will scout this fortress, take account of the strength of its assets, have a better understanding of the lay of the land, find opportunities for sabotage. I will bear that information to your rescuers, and if I should succeed that far, it is my vow to you that I will return with them, so that I can bring you home. I swear it. By my body and my blood and my soul and all else that I can promise – I will return with help."_

 _He finished speaking and braiding at the same time, but before he could rise and walk away from Legolas, and the prince found the strength to grab at his grandfather's collar to pull him closer._

 _"_ _Bring her with you," he urged the older elf, speaking of his mother. "Please."_

 _"_ _She will not come," his grandfather guaranteed. "You know this. I would have to drag her kicking and screaming. Your mother always had her own mind, and she loves fiercely. If she ever listened to me willingly after all - she never would have married your father."_

 _A teary smile trembled at Legolas' lips._

 _Their exchange was broken by the dull thunk! of a fist slamming against unyielding, iron bars. The two Silvans looked over at the incensed warrior Queen across the hall, leaning against her prison door._

 _"_ _No scheming against me!" she hissed at them dangerously._

 _The old Silvan laughed softly, and pressed a kiss to Legolas;' forehead before rising to his feet. He addressed both of them next._

 _"_ _You already know not to expect mercy," he said quietly and grimly in the most archaic, little known version of their shared Silvan dialect. "They will do to you, just as they threatened. Surely you are also aware the odds of a successful escape or rescue are slim to none. But you have two secrets with which to bargain-"_

 _Legolas shook his head vigorously, at any thought of revealing the information that the_ yrch _wanted – his father's impending, secret visit – and the other piece of information they did not know was staring them in the face... that they already had in their possession another valuable hostage, the Queen herself._

 _"_ _Enough of that now," said his grandfather mildly. "You are too young to understand this but in torture, one is truly meant to break and most do. Do not expect to be better than others in this respect, and do not hate yourself for submission. But what you need to do is this – resist as long as you can, until the information the enemy seeks from you is outdated and irrelevant. If your father's ministers are worth their salt, they will make the proper adjustments the moment it is realized whatever information we captives have has already been compromised. Trust that they will do their job, and you must do yours – that is, to survive. Giving them the information when it is rendered useless by time will not be a failure." He looked pointedly at his daughter next. "And it will not be a betrayal."_

 _She licked her lips in thought, and gave him a noncommittal jerk of her head._

 _"_ _And now I must go," he said. He walked to his daughter's cell and held her hands briefly, squeezed them between the bars that separated them._

 _Then, in a flurry of greens and browns, he was gone._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	8. Hope is Costly Here

**hello everyone!**

 **First off, thanks to everyone** who is still with me on this latest effort of mine :) To the kind reviewers, please keep the insights and c&c's coming if you can, they are really the best motivators, especially for a tough write that has me second-guessing my creative decisions left and right. I am truly grateful for anyone who spares the time :) For those who cannot review, thanks too for sticking around - my hope is just for everyone to enjoy the story, even if the subject matter is brutal. Speaking of brutal...

 **AN IMPORTANT WARNING ON UPCOMING CONTENT**. We all knew the fic was going to have violence and death, right? And everyone knows LOTR is liberally peppered with it, anyway. But in this fic's chapter, please be warned that there will be violence of a sexual nature, as part of other forms of brutality that comprises mental and physical torture. I will not describe anything explicitly, I endeavored to be suggestive and euphemistic, but I think the resulting outcome will be unquestionable. There will be a non-consensual sexual assault.

I struggled with its inclusion, and will explain at length why I went in this direction in my usual Author's Afterword. But briefly, sexual violence in the context of conflict is an under-reported but ages old form of war crime, because it affects not only a person but the fabric of a community. It has been historically used not only as a form of individual torture, but systematically and strategically for military ends. It is in short, a weapon, and a startlingly cheap and effective one.

Its wider recognition as a war crime, however, is a shockingly recent development. Consider that Homer's _Iliad_ was written around 762 B.C. and it was already discussing how the "taking" of a female prize can show a man he is greater than his enemy... but the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to activists shedding light on sexual violence in conflict zones only literally last year.

Anyways, this note is too long, isn't it? So without further ado, a rather brutal Chapter 8:

 **#**

 **# # #**

 **8: Hope is Costly Here**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

 **# # #**

 **#**

Gone was Thranduil's warm radiant light from that moment on the road when he found out his wife and son had been taken, Maenor reflects. The Elvenking blazes still, the Valar know how powerfully he blazes. But warmth has gone in favor of burning, consuming fire, roiling beneath an unflappable exterior that is as formidable as thin ice and just as translucent. Anyone who knows him sees what lies beneath, always too close to the surface – pain deep and cold darkness.

Maenor thinks on these things as he looks upon the Elvenking's ailing son while making his own painful remembrances. He was aware they would be stirring up Legolas' memories, though he did not completely understand how much he would be waking his own. Legolas knew, though - from the beginnings of this exercise, the young prince deliriously promised a reckoning for Maenor too.

 _"_ _I will do my part," Legolas had said, "But when I have done so, I will ask you to do the same. I will also ask you to remember..."_

Legolas looks up at him blearily, as if sensing his train of thought, though it is hard to tell for sure. Maenor's healer's eye can see that the prince is really struggling for focus now, both by his ailing body and his tortured mind. He finds temporary relief from his illness with each of Maenor's minimal ministrations, but they all know the interview – interrogation? _Torture?_ – must be concluded quickly so that he could be given the appropriate treatment and finally, blessedly, real rest and recovery.

But to finish, they must go through the worst of it, first.

"It is an interesting way of looking at things," Lastor says thoughtfully after Legolas has shared his grandfather's words. "That breaking under torture and sharing information after a lengthy resistance is just part of survival, especially in cases where the usefulness of the information yielded expires when it is strategically useless and outdated. As Intelligence Minister, this is something I am still hesitant to impart as a general strategy. But there is some logic to it."

"We were a small party when we arrived at the village," Maenor says quickly, more eager to move forward than to indulge Lastor's morbid, professional intellectualizing and meandering. "The Elvenking, four royal guards, myself, and the traitorous guardsman who had intercepted us. It was the _elleth_ Merilel who gave us a briefing on the situation and Thranduil could barely stand the moments he had to wait and listen. At that point, reinforcements called upon the neighboring villages have not arrived, and of course the rider we had sent to the stronghold for more help would not be coming for days. We looked at each other and knew – Thranduil would not wait, perhaps _could not_ find it in himself to wait. Whatever forces we had was all that would be mounting a challenge against a raiding party of _yrch_. It was a daunting proposition even before we knew would eventually be going up against Gundabad itself."

Legolas shudders, both in his sickness and the thought of his otherwise unflappable father going on such a fool's errand. Maenor looks at him worriedly, especially as his eyes flutter. Lying back down is giving him more comfort, but also lulling him towards sleep. He blinks and fights it through.

"Merilel had gone with us as guide," Maenor continues, "We took into our party most of the able-bodied from the village, while some were left to its defense. You should have seen it, _ernil-nin_. The child-archers you had trained, lined in a defiant row demanding to help while the adults adamantly refused their offer to come. They were appeased by an assignment to defend their home, while the rest of us mounted your rescue. The elflings were afraid, you could see it in their eyes, but there they stood upon the borders of their village. I see it in my mind as if it were yesterday, these child archers all in a row as we vanished into the trees."

Legolas' eyes waters, and his chest tightens. He realizes again, that in burying his memories of the dark times, he's also forgotten the bravery and good deeds of others.

It is a prison of its own, how pain and darkness crowds out all that is good, all that has light. He closes his eyes and tries, tries, tries harder. But all his happy memories have too long been corrupted and soiled and overshadowed.

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _Shadows crossed over his mother's face all through the long night. She sat against the bars of her prison because it was the closest she could be to her son and from there, Legolas had a view of how the firelight from the small hall torch flickered and danced, alternately casting light and darkness on her stern countenance._

 _"_ _What are you thinking?" Legolas asked her from where he lay on the ground, curled and wrapped in his grandfather's cloak._

 _"_ _I ponder upon the path that has led us here," she admitted. "How I can curse that blasted Orthordir and mourn him at the same time. What is true of what I know? What was real? How could I not have seen the anger in his heart?"_

 _"_ _By the very nature of betrayal it is not supposed to be expected," Legolas told her gently._

 _She shook her head, dismissing her melancholy, dismissing her self-doubt, channeling her sharp mind into something more productive._

 _"_ _I think your grandfather is being his wily best again," she said with a small smile. "I hear no stirrings of any awareness from our foes that he had gone off. But hope is costly here."_

 _Legolas looked at her, at their grave situation and brutal surroundings, and he could only agree in silence._

 _The light flickered over her face again._

 _"_ _It fades," she said softly of the torch. "Some hours have passed since we were last checked upon. You should find what rest and recovery you can before our jailers return."_

 _Legolas nodded, but he'd not been able to find any ease that was not unconsciousness since their capture. There had been no rest, no real sleep. His mind has been racing and his heart aching for days now. Particularly this night, there was something in his mind, an image that would not leave him. He'd been worrying about others and felt somewhat exempt by the belief that the orcs would keep him alive for ransom. But what their blasted leader had said before leaving them here for the night now gave him pause, and true cause to fear for himself._

 _"_ _You know what that orc promised," he said tentatively. "I understand what he means. He means to, he means to..."_

 _He could not even say the word out loud._

 _"_ _Yes," his mother said in a flat, expressionless tone. "That is precisely what he means to do."_

 _"_ _To me," Legolas finished._

 _She couldn't hide the horror that crossed her mind's eye, even when she tried to steel her expression. It reflected on her gaze. "Yes."_

 _"_ _We cannot stop them," Legolas murmured._

 _"_ _As your grandfather said – there are secrets with which we can bargain, and it would neither be a failure nor a betrayal to bend," she said. "Your only job now is to survive. And mine is to help you do so."_

 _"_ _But, but one can survive it, couldn't one?" Legolas asked. "I can suffer it and survive it, can't I?"_

 _She shuddered and shook her head at him. "I cannot speak of things I do not know, Legolas. Perhaps it depends on what you mean by surviving. Our enemies mean for your body to go on, but it is an assault on the soul, you see, that which they intend to do. And not only upon your soul, but that of your community. It will be disheartening to the people who could not protect their Prince, as well as to the King who has such wealth and power yet no means by which to spare those he loves from the horrors of the world. What our enemies mean to do when they hurt you is to strike at the very heart of us as a people–" She cut herself off and said, "They come."_

 _Legolas wearily pushed up to sit, and adjusted his grandfather's cloak to cover his body with. As he and his mother waited for the orcs to come, he told her in the bravest, steadiest way he could –_

 _"_ _I will suffer what I have to suffer, do you understand? But remember what you told me about that guard in the forest. Do not invalidate my sacrifice. If I do not speak while they break my body, you do not get to. That is not your right."_

 _"_ _I said that?" she murmured wryly. "Mothers are exempt."_

She has such few jokes _, Legolas thought fleetingly,_ and she jokes about this...?

 _"_ _I expect you to respect my wishes," he told her boldly, ignoring her quip because they did not have much time. "Please. Please. Give up nothing, no matter what they do. Not for me. Not for me."_

 _The orcs arrived, then. They jolted at the sight of Legolas, freed from the ropes that bound him and blanketed on the floor. And then they noticed the old Silvan's empty prison cell._

 _They froze for a long moment, and there was only silence in the hall as they pondered their situation. The Silvan warrior queen broke it by laughing – loudly, proudly, with all the ridicule she could muster for the dumbfounded captors who had lost their charge. It was a good laugh, a proper careless Silvan laugh, the kind that carried the music of trees rustling and birds singing, a sound that danced and echoed in the woods as if it came from everywhere._

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

# # #

#

It is everywhere. From the memories conjured by his tortured mind, the sound of his mother's laughter seems to have become solid and real, streaming into his ears, dancing in the air, drifting up into the ceiling. He can almost see it, broken into syllables and letters. He reaches for them tentatively, but his fingers close around nothingness.

Maenor captures his empty hands before they drop limply to his bed. The healer also takes the opportunity to track his pulse at the wrist. He barely notices, floating on the notes of his late mother's long-lost laughter.

"It was the last time," he murmurs as his eyes begin to close in exhaustion, "the last time I ever heard her laugh."

The realization sends a jolt of lightning in his heart and he jerks, but it is all the movement his weary body could stand to do. His soul ached and his mind raced, but his hroa was heavy and slow, irreflective of how he bucked and kicked and swore and fought inside.

"They came for me," he hears himself slur, "Just as they promised." He gasps, tries to be more aware, tries to move, but he can only toss and turn. He hears himself speak and his voice is thin, he is barely there. It does not show how hard he fights.

"But she knew how to take my place," he says breathily, "She told them who she was."

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _Was she really Thranduil's forest whore?_

 _Was she really who she said she was?_

 _Was she really just as valuable a hostage as the golden prince?_

 _The detestable_ yrch _had this new wrinkle to ponder after they realized the old Silvan farmer's escape and arranged parties to search for him. When they finally turned their attentions upon Legolas and his_ naneth _, and stepped into the prince's cell to assault him as they had promised to, she revealed her secret._

 _The Silvan Warrior Queen knew how to take the bullseye from her son and turn the unwanted attentions of their enemy her way. She dared them to lay claim upon her body, Thranduil's last unspoiled country. The place where only the Elvenking has ever dwelt._

 _Her half-mad ranting quickened as her desperation increased, because their monstrous captors had already thrown off the cloak that covered her son's nakedness. Because though he bucked, kicked, clawed, bit and made his captors pay for his torment in their own blood and cracked bone, he was not a match for the bulk, skill and cruelty of a half dozen beasts bred for war. Because he was breathless and trembling, bruised and dazed, lying on his belly on the hard ground with their hands and their weight on top of his body pressing him down, while their leader knelt insidiously near his back._

 _"_ _I am the Queen!" she insisted, "The sheath upon which rests the Elvenking's sword-"_

 _"_ _She lies!" Legolas yelled in his own desperation and need to spare her. "She is nothing but a lowly Silvan, a pretender, she is nothing!"_

 _The orc leader paused, and because Legolas had ceased his struggles so that he may be taken instead of his ranting mother, the other_ yrch _could pause too, and wait for their commander's decision._

 _"_ _She lies," Legolas hissed, and his strained voice was loud in the confined space. "She lies, she is nothing. She is nothing."_

 _But the Queen was pressing her strong, lithe body against the bars, and she raised her head in her proudest impersonation of a Sindar royal._

 _"_ _Thranduil's final unspoiled country," she told them, "Unconquered."_

 _Legolas heard the orc commander behind him rise to his feet, and the prince started bucking against those that held him down again. "No! No! No!"_

 _He screamed, he fought. He suffered the subduing hits as he watched the orc leader step out of his cell and go into the hall, then into the prison that held his mother. But he fought like a madman, crazed, desperate, deadly. Deep inside him he knew he would not be able to escape and help, but he collected that debt handsomely from their captors. Their dark, viscous blood mingled on the ground with his own rich, red, until he unnerved one of them so much that it grabbed at his head, slammed it repeatedly against the ground and stopped only when his own peers pulled him away._

 _Legolas barely felt it, when the orcs pulled his arms to his back and tied him at the wrists. They tied him at the knees and ankles too. Still keeping a bleary, bloodied, weeping eye upon his mother though, he squirmed toward her. To call it a crawl would be generous, for the only means by which he had to move were his rock-bitten cheeks, his belly, his knees, his elbows at his sides. He wormed forward, using everything he had left to come to her._

 _"_ _Irrepressible brat," one of orcs hissed when it realized Legolas was somehow following after them to the exit, toward his mother. It called for one of its compatriots and together, they grabbed the Prince and hauled him to his folding, boneless legs. They held him up against the pole his grandfather had previously freed him from, while they raised the arms tied at the wrists on his back, raised it and raised it and tied him to the pole that way, his shoulders stuck in an unnatural position that had it straining at the sockets._

 _When they released him and his weight was fully upon his near-rotated shoulders and the arms overextended at his back, he cried out in blinding pain, and his bare feet scrambled beneath him to at least carry some of his weight. He shook in pain and cold, but found some purchase, some breath, some strength with which to lift his head._

 _He found his mother pressed against the bars, facing him, holding his gaze._

 _"_ _Ion-nin," she said, and her voice trembled, her body shook minutely in fear and anticipated pain, but her eyes were sharp in anger and determination. "I will scream because what they do is wrong and it will hurt. But it is only the body, do you understand? It is only the body, it is only of this earth. We do not own it, we do not get to keep it, we even yield it in the end. It is only the body. Whatever they do, my spirit will burn through."_

 _He found no comfort or assurance from her words and could only curse and watch with horror as the sinewy, powerful bodies of their captors slowly surrounded her._

 _The Silvan warrior queen fought them back, by the gods did she fight and win for herself a few of her enemies' blood and broken bones. But they were determined to take Thranduil's unspoiled country, preferably without killing her, and someone had thought to bring in a foul ale of such potency that it made Legolas' eyes and nose burn from where he hung in his cell across the hall._

 _They forced the foul drink down her mouth. They held her down and she choked on it, but down her gullet the liquid did go, until she was a mess of sluggish limbs. Until she was more pliant, barely moving, vulnerable to their unwelcome, brutal advance._

 _"_ _No," the young prince screamed, "Nonononononono..." his mind raced, and he remembered his grandfather's words. He had one more, one more secret with which to bargain._

 _"_ _I will tell you what you want to know!" he yelled at their torturers in anguish for his impending betrayal of his father, "Please, please just leave her be-"_

 _"_ _The Elvenking is coming," the Queen suddenly said, her voice dulled and slurred. "The Elvenking is coming."_

 _Something inside him understood why she did it. She knew he was going to break, so she broke for him. So that it was a guilt he would never have to carry._

 _But the orcs had lust in their veins, and they laughed off her revelation, cared for it not at all at this point. They came for her, even with Legolas's desperate protests for them to stop, for them to stop, for them to stop... for was not the bargain that they would exercise restraint in exchange for information?_

 _But all too soon the protests became helpless, wracking sobs, and curses, and then unintelligible screaming. Legolas cursed and screamed for her pain, for his own. The unforgiving, immovable stone and iron around them could have shook from his otherwise impotent rage. Impotent. Impotent because for all that his screams could crumble the world around them, as long as he could not reach her, he felt like he was nothing._

 _When she started to cry out, even in her heavy, forced inebriation, he screamed louder and drowned it out, so that she would at least not have to hear herself in torment._

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

# # #

#

The torment is in his eyes.

The Prince's chambers are silent but the air is thick, alive, suffocating with his memories and the screams lodged in his half-open mouth. His are eyes are wide open while his mind stares at his memories, seeing nothing and seeing too much all at the same brutal, unforgiving time.

Maenor looks down upon the Woodland Prince with sadness and a heavy heart. Legolas lies upon the bed unmoving, barely breathing, and his glacial eyes turned up to the ceiling are passively leaking tears against the sides of his face. They pool at his pillows.

He has exited their interview, fled the Elvenking's stronghold, slipped away in time - and has gone to a place of horror in his mind that is beyond words.

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _His words could not reach her. She was beyond him, so far away in body, mind and spirit that he was not even sure she was still alive._

 _The formidable, proud Silvan warrior queen was reduced to a puppet with its strings cut, a collection of boneless limbs on the ground, discarded like the random pieces of her clothes that were tossed around her cell._

 _She laid on her side, facing away from Legolas and instead toward the unforgiving, jagged rocks deeper within her prison. Her braided her was a grimed, tangled mess, and all that he could see of her body from her torn garments of forest greens and warriors' leathers were bloodied and beaten, tortured and torn._

 _Her slim, pale white, limp limbs were splayed about. There were lines of rope marking her wrists, her ankles, her long, slim, swan-like neck. Blood streaked on her legs. And because apparently one torture was not enough, her bare feet also had their soles burnt, toes crooked, nails torn. She had lost her elven glow._

 _When the orcs were done with her they left._

 _When they left they promised they would come for him next._

 _He'd found he had ceased caring about their threats. He was only relieved they had finally left his mother alone. He decided he would suffer what he had to suffer. He vowed to himself, to whichever gods still listened that he would stand it all,_ could _stand it all, anything and everything that would come afterwards, if he only knew she was alive._

 _"_ Naneth _," he rasped, from where he still hung. He'd been strung up like this for countless hours now. It may have been a day or more, he was not sure anymore. At some point he'd lost feeling in his arms, an absence of pain he had initially welcomed, until he realized he had to keep craning his head and looking at them to make sure they were still there. The limbs tied behind him and from which he hung, looked red and so inflamed his skin shone and was torn in ragged parts he also did not feel until his eyes fell on them. He gasped in surprise and was sickened by the sight. His vision spun and so he closed his eyes and turned away. He sucked on the strands of his hair where his grandfather had woven in herbs, and rode the wave of pain and dizziness._

 _"_ Naneth _please," he said softly into the thick, cloying dark. She did not move. His eyes watered, and he lowered his head, and his breath stuttered and his chest heaved at a strangled sob. It tightened his lungs, which was already strained by the tortuous position he was in, and weakened by his weary body suffering days of injury and abuse. Suddenly there was no proper breath to be had. He felt like he was sucking air through a sieve._

 _He lifted his heavy head and tilted it back in some effort to clear his airways, but nothing helped. He gulped in air like a dying fish. The world spun. The world spun. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe._

 _His eyes widened and he repositioned his head. He shook it. He squirmed and jerked; these were the sum total of all that he could move, all the means by which he could seek relief. He sucked on his grandfather's concealed herbs twisted in his hair, though knowing they've probably been so used they've lost all potency by now. He gasped and twisted, trying various positions in an effort to simply breathe._

 _Nothing helped. His vision dimmed. And when his quaking legs could no longer support him from lack of air, they collapsed beneath him. Thus did all of his weight fall upon the arms tied and raised unnaturally at his back. He heard his own shoulders pop, and some of his strained skin, overstretched from swelling within, tear. He gasped, having no more voice to cry out. He went from feeling no pain to feeling the worst pain he ever had in his life._

 _Darkness clouded his vision as he hung there, thoroughly wrung out, near-spent, barely breathing. But he had sight enough to see his mother's shaking arms lift from the ground. Her long, white limbs were suddenly overbright in the dark prison. They lifted from her sides, and first went for the skirts that were in disarray around her bare, blood-streaked legs. She pulled them down to cover herself. And then she raised them to her head, and she cleared her grimed hair from her face._

 _Legolas watched in dizzied bewilderment as little by little, she put herself back together. She pushed up off the ground She sat. She turned to look at her ailing son. She crawled toward the bars that kept her from him. She rose trembling, hanging onto the cold, rough iron. Her injured feet would not support her, and she fell to the ground in a pained cry, back on all fours._

 _His eyes watered again as he watched, but not because his mighty mother had been reduced to this – an injured animal on her knees, no. He shed tears not for any despair. He found he could cry for all the greatness of her, for the spirit that burned through, just as she promised, like a fabled phoenix rising from the ashes with flames for wings, incandescent for all her wild, angry power._

 _He did not know what reserves she had to draw from to return to herself, but he suspected it had something to do with him. Her son needed her, and so somehow, she found a way to rise again._

 _"_ Yrch! _" she cried out, and her voice was loud and strong, crystal clear as it carried in the halls of the cave fortress. "You gods damned bastards! Let me out and let me tend him if you want to keep him alive!"_

 _No one came so she only became louder and sterner as she repeated herself, over and over, and over, lacing her calls liberally with curses._

 _But her sternest command she reserved for her son – "Listen to me you log-headed wood-elf. I am coming to you, so you had better damn hold on and wait."_

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

# # #

#

The three ministers wait and watch patiently for Legolas to return to them.

As amongst the most senior of Thranduil's advisors and oldest of friends in Brenion's particular case, they had more knowledge than most of the darkest memory their prince may be returning to.

They've long known, as few others do, that their Queen had been brutalized while in captivity. After the young Legolas recovered enough to formally report on his experiences, he had already forgotten the more minute details of their capture but was able to report the broader strokes of what had happened – Orthordir's betrayal for example, and the inescapable, traumatizing detail of his mother's horrors.

Maenor recalls being there for the young prince's debriefing hundreds of years ago, held in the privacy of his rooms but with the healer present due to the still-delicate, barely-recovered condition he was in. Also in attendance were the Elvenking, and Brenion and Lastor given their military and intelligence functions. But none of the other ministers or any other elves were there.

 _"_ _The Queen was assaulted in front of me," the young prince had revealed in a tone defensively devoid of life and tone and character and feeling and connection, as if it was someone else's story._

 _Maenor stiffened. They were all veterans of a more outwardly violent age, and always knew in the backs of their minds that, that such an assault while held in captivity was a possibility. Maenor looked away from the ailing prince and turned his head up to the vaulted ceilings of the vast royal chambers. He sent a prayer up to the gods – for the Queen who was lost so brutally and with her, the heartbroken Elvenking and his son who could very well follow from their grief._

 _"_ _Assaulted?" asked the Intelligence Minister Lastor who was by profession, required to be precise in his knowledge, not just relying on assumptions._

 _"_ _Assaulted," Legolas said breathily, with finality, and they all knew what he meant, and they all knew he would yield no further information._

 _If Thranduil had suspected his wife had been thus violated and how he felt about Legolas' report and confirmation, Maenor did not know. He had no courage to glance in his king's direction to find out. And what Thranduil said after Legolas' statement gave nothing away._

 _"_ _Continue with what happened next," he ordered his son in a voice clear and crisp and frigid. It sounded like the clink! of a sharp sword bouncing against armor, or like the final inch-square space of river water that turned into ice in the deep winter, even as wild waters churned dark and cold beneath._

What the three ministers did not know until this second debriefing though, was that the Queen had revealed her identity and offered her body to their captors to spare her son. Maenor sighs. It was an unimaginable burden to bear for a young elf.

"He keeps drifting," observes Brenion quietly, as he ponders their next course of action. "I don't like the looks of it. Can he take much more?"

"He needs the proper medicine," says Maenor. "And rest - real rest, not one where he is badgered by his elders for information."

"But is this not the precise condition we need him in?" argues Lastor. "This is the state of health which brings him back to that past, and the memories we need. And we do need them."

"How much more do we need?" counters Brenion. "He has already given us the answers we seek. We know why they were taken. We know the torture methods employed. We've learned invaluable tools for survival, escape and resistance. Perhaps we can already stop this."

Legolas stirs, temporarily halting the discussion. Maenor shoots forward with a vial of a restorative cordial and presses it to his lips for a sip, which he takes absently.

#

# # #

#

Their voices have drifted into his semi-awareness, and he jerks and struggles to be more present.

But the world has shrunken to his body, caught amid all the tightly coiled misery within it. He can't rise from bed for escape; he can't even lift his arm or his own head. He is dead weight, sinking, sinking...

He'd almost drowned once, and he returns to that memory now, of falling to the depths and looking up at shrinking daylight over his head as it drifted farther and farther away from him, and darkness encroached from the edges of his fading vision.

Here beneath the water, his limbs are heavy. It is freezing cold. His ears are muffled. He cannot breathe.

But then he feels a misplaced sensation – a thick, sweet, warm liquid pressed against his lips, tilted to his mouth, and he swallows by instinct.

 _Miruvor_.

It revives him, but jarringly. His entire body jolts in sudden awareness, and he is pulled from the water at a dizzying speed. From the depths he is hauled up, up, up towards the light until it is blinding. He draws a large gasp and his chest rises, but when he opens his eyes he is not on a shore, he is not on the surface of the water. He is in his bed, soaked not from near-drowning but by his own sweat, and the tears on his sodden pillow.

His sudden return is jarring, and he feels his mind reel and his stomach rebel. He turns to his side and retches, but he has nothing to release but choking coughs. He feels a familiar hand rub circles upon his back. It is a familiar touch, light from experience, sure with knowing, warm with compassion.

 _Maenor_ , he reminds himself, just as his eyes settle on the robed legs of two other elves with them. Brenion, the War Minister. Lastor, the Intelligence Minister.

Maenor helps Legolas settle back down to his pillows, and looks upon him kindly as the younger elf closes his eyes and catches his breath. He reaches over to the prince's disheveled hair and tugs them gently away from his face, stroking his forehead and cheeks comfortingly along the way.

"How did you survive it?" he asks, making the admiration in his voice plain, and louder than the pity he also inextricably felt for all the horrors Legolas had to witness. "How _do_ you survive it?"

Legolas' eyes opened and settled upon the healer's. "She did," he replies quietly, "she survived it. So I also have to."

"I think we have what we need and more," Brenion says, making the decision for all of them to cease now.

Maenor quickly agrees. "You need your rest. We have already asked you for too much." He rises to his feet for his herbs and medicines. "I will give you something stronger now. Something to end the grip of this affliction once and for all. It will put you in a deep, healing sleep-"

"No!" Legolas protests, surprising even himself by his vehement opposition. "No, no please. Do not, do not send me to sleep, not yet, not like this. Not, not, not _here_."

He knows he is not making much sense, not articulating himself properly, even as the thought is crystal clear in his head. He forces himself to calm, lest he be thought in a worse state of feverish delusion than he actually is. For his thinking is sensible and clear in this, and is it not the very height of logic not to desire to be stuck at this point of the story, at this part of his memories?

"The story, it needs to go on," he begs, "It needs to move forward to when the King comes, when we get out into the light."

He says this even as he knows, even as he knows beyond any doubt that not all of them make it out into the light. He knows how the story ends, he knows his mother dies, he knows. But he also knows that to leave the memories here, the point where she is debased, to have it play over and over in his mind... it is an injustice to her, and a personal hell for him. The story must go on.

"Do not send me to sleep like this," he begs, "I do not wish to remain there."

#

# # #

 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

# # #

#

 _There he remained, more or less tethered to life, just as she asked him to. Somehow, she had convinced their captors to let her into his cell and to let her tend him and fight for his life for that was where he found her when he next opened his eyes._

 _He'd been freed from the torturous position he was previously held in, and he was now lying on the ground again covered by his grandfather's cloak. His mother sat beside him, and she had a hand pressed lightly over his chest, near his heart. She didn't notice he was awake right away. She was staring unseeing at an unknown place, wearing the gaze of one who was lost and drifting._

 _He took the time afforded by her distraction to examine himself. His breathing was less labored but it was still short and strained, and his body felt strange, as if it was not his own, as if he was just visiting. His blood felt thick in his veins and all his limbs felt heavily numb. His heart alternately fluttered and stilled and pounded in his chest – tentative then insistent, weakening then bucking. There was pain on the edges of his mind, from somewhere ambiguous that he was not yet aware enough to understand, but mostly he was dizzy, generally uncomfortable and cold, cold to his bones and his body shook and his teeth chattered with it._

 _When the Queen finally lowered her eyes to him, their gazes met and she jolted at the sight of him awake._

 _"_ Nana _?" he rasped, and she said nothing at first, crawling away from his view before crawling back with a cup of water in her hand. She pressed it to his lips and he took in the drink greedily, for he realized his throat was so dry. When he finished it, he nearly wept for its loss._

 _"_ _More," he begged, "Water, n_ aneth _, please."_

 _"_ _That is all they would give," she told him quietly._

 _He licked his lips hungrily, but nodded in understanding. He swallowed and worked his throat, and lay quietly for a long moment, feeling the water trace and cool his insides. In his empty stomach, they churned uncomfortably, and he winced. He closed his eyes in an attempt to calm his body. His stomach clenched in rebellion. He closed his eyes harder as the world spun and twisted even in the darkness between his lids._

 _"_ _Gods no," was all that he could say, the sound strangled in his working throat as his stomach promptly expelled its meager contents and sent it back up forcefully out his mouth. He could not rise and started choking, until his mother pulled him up slightly and turned him on his side, bracing him on her lap._

 _The only thing more painful than retching in his condition was his disappointment in himself, because he had lost them the only water they were allowed._

 _He fell against her exhaustedly, and she held him tightly as he said, over and over, how very sorry he was for all the damned waste of water. So very, very, sorry._

 _From how she held him, his eyes were able to drift to his legs, uncovered now when he had dislodged his blanket/cloak from moving. They were strange-looking, swollen, the tapering at his knees, calves and ankles were gone, melding his feet to his legs as if they were all part of the straight trunk of a small tree. But maybe it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, for his gaze quickly unfocused, and everything melded together anyway._

 _He drifted back into unconsciousness to his mother's soothing shushes and her steely promise, "I will get us more, somehow."_

#

# # #

#

 _He woke exhausted, on the tail end of an inexplicable shaking that left him a quivering, whimpering mess. His mother was there, holding him by the arms, a look of wide-eyed fear marring and lining her fair face._

 _"_ _Are they coming back?" he asked, jerking, trying to rise to a more defensible position except his body had somehow turned into mush._

 _She frowned thoughtfully at him, as if unsure of what he was saying, unsure of his state of mind._

 _"_ _They've not touched us in a long while,_ ion _," she told him softly, tentatively. She was waiting for something from him, but he wasn't sure what it was._

 _"_ _But you look... afraid," he murmured up at her._

 _She took a deep, shaky breath and slumped, as if suddenly relieved. "I thought your mind had gone, but it seems you are still here with me after all."_

 _He frowned at her in lingering confusion and she explained, after a long moment – "I fear for you. The ailment which your grandfather had spoken of has taken terrible hold."_

 _Legolas barely remembered the finer points of what they were told by the older elf, but he remembered at least that the affliction was lethal. He catalogued himself. "But I feel... only unwell. Dizzy and cold. Otherwise, I feel nothing, much."_

 _The statement jolted rather than comforted her, but she said nothing of it and shook her head at whatever thoughts plagued her. She moved away from his view – still at a crawl he noticed, her legs still unable to support her – and she returned with a wet cloth, a piece that had come from her dress. She laid it over his head, and it felt like ice. He shuddered, and could not help shying away from the offending object._

 _She tsked at him. "Stay still, you need it badly."_

 _"_ _Freezing," he said through grit teeth._

 _"_ _You are burning with fever," she explained. "You suffer fits from it. This is all I can do for you."_

 _"_ _I didn't realize," he admitted quietly. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a long moment, willing himself to keep from moving. She looked worried, but as he said – he felt tired, cold and adrift, dizzy at times but he felt here, he felt alive._

 _He opened his eyes again and their gazes met. "It is only a fever," he said softly._

 _"_ _You look bad," she said flatly. "Bad enough that even those damned beasts let me tend you. And they've... they've since acquired enough restraint not to, not to touch you as they earlier said they would."_

 _He bit his lip, and he ached more than ever to rise in that moment, even just to his hands and knees. To rise as she had after what had been done to her, just because he needed her. She needed him now, and how badly, how badly did he ache to rise for her. To be better for her. To be well for her._

 _"_ _Are you..." he hesitated. '_ Are you well?' _was trite, wasn't it? Almost cruel by its simplicity. She spared them both from him having to say it._

 _"_ _I am alive," she said, jutting up her chin in defiance, and she started busying her trembling hands. She fussed with her dress, she fussed with the cloak that covered him. "I am angry. It will be enough for now. Later there will be other things."_

 _She averted her gaze from his and ran her fingers through her hair. She then fisted her hands and moved one up to her mouth. She chewed at her knuckles – they were already marked by her teeth - before lowering it and giving him a sidelong glance and a wild, mad, Silvan smile._

 _"_ _Later, I will tear this accursed place down."_

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#

 _He did not know he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to the jagged rock ceiling of his and his mother's now shared, miserable prison. The sight of the rocks above looked familiar, just as the feeling of waking up confused and displeased to this same sight, was familiar. He understood quickly that this was not the first time he'd drifted in and out like this._

 _The Silvan Warrior-Queen's face came into view._

 _"_ _Nana," he whispered up to her, and he tried to raise his heavy hands to her. He felt weak, far more diminished than the last time he had mind enough to remember. He did not know how long or how recently that last time was. The hours melded together._

 _He realized quite suddenly that the weakness terrified him. It was alien, unwelcome, and he found he ached very much for her touch. But his limbs were too heavy. She looked down upon him kindly. It was the softest expression he had ever seen on her often stern countenance._

 _He tried to reach for her, but his body refused to coope-_

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#

 _He did not know he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to the jagged rock ceiling of his and his mother's now shared, miserable prison. This was not the first time he'd drifted in and out like this._

 _The Silvan Warrior-Queen's face came into view._

 _"_ _Nana," he whispered up to her, and he tried to raise his heavy hands to-_

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#

 _He did not know he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to the jagged rock ceiling of his and his mother's now shared, miserable prison. This was not the first time he'd drifted in and out like this._

 _The Silvan Warrior-Queen's face came into view._

 _"_ Naneth _..." he moaned._

 _"_ _I am sorry,_ ion-nin _," she said, and her large, warm tears fell like the first drops of spring rain upon his face. "I am so sorry."_

 _She placed her strong, cold hands over his eyes and closed them. He sighed for the pleasure of her skin on his. He wondered if this has happened before because the sensation was familiar – his mother's hands over his eyes, shielding him from a too-bright sun, or shielding him from a nightmare._

 _But her next movement was certainly unexpected - she placed her strong, cold hands over his mouth and nose, and pressed down so that he could not breathe._

 _"_ _I am so sorry," she said._

 _He was ailing and weak and he did not think at first that he could move, but when his air was cut off he felt a bucking, unthinking strength take over his body. He kicked, he twisted, he fought. He turned his face away from her iron grip and got as far as "_ Naneth, _what-" before she clamped her hand over his mouth and nose again._

 _"_ _You can let go now,_ ion-nin _, please," the Silvan Queen begged. But his body would not listen._

 _"_ Nana _you're hurting m-" he said around her insistent grip._

 _"_ _Let go, now. Let go. Let go, my son. It is better this way..." the Silvan Queen insisted._

 _He couldn't because he couldn't understand. He struggled. HE fought, until his mother's hands were pried from his face, and she screamed in anguish at what she had failed to do, while their monstrous captors pulled her away from her own son. They dragged her away kicking and screaming and scratching at them, while Legolas took in one painful, ragged breath after another and spiraled away again._

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#

 _He did not know he'd fallen asleep until he woke up to the jagged rock ceiling of his and his mother's now shared, miserable prison –_

 _She was not with him anymore._

 _"_ _Legolas."_

 _He turned his head in the direction of her voice. He blinked at the cobwebs in his mind and to clear his clouded vision. Their captives have taken her from his side and placed her back in her cell, across the hall from his. She was lying on the ground and pressed tightly against the iron bars, her arm stretched across the narrow hall that separated their cells. It was a desperate reach for him across a surprisingly impossible distance._

 _"_ Nana _," he rasped out, and he remembered slipping away to sleep from a nightmare... some fevered delusion that she was hurting him?_

 _"_ _I am so sorry,_ ion-nin _," she said. "I should have acted faster. I should have snapped your neck perhaps, but I did not - I do not - have the strength for that. And now they will no longer let me come near you. I am sorry."_

 _"_ _I don't understand," he murmured._

 _Her breath hitched. Was she crying? He frowned and focused his wavering attention on her face._

 _"_ _Forgive your mother,_ ion _," she said, "I brought you into this danger, and could not even protect you from a long, slow, painful death in the dark."_

 _"_ _I don't understand," he said again, and when her eyes closed in despair, tears leaked from them._

 _"_ _You are a warrior now whether you wish it or not," she told him softly. "And you have a right to know, so that you may make whatever peace you wish in your heart. I think, I think you are..." she struggled with the next word and it came out strangled and she left it there, half-said. "I tried everything I could to tend you." She scoffed at herself, "I've even reminded them of the information about your father's coming in a bid to bargain for supplies."_

 _He felt his face crumple in guilt, remembering what she had done for him. He also felt unavoidable disappointment in the both of them for bending to the will of their torturers and of course, he felt worry for his arriving father. She waved it all away._

 _"_ _I wouldn't put too much stock in it," she said. "The information is outdated as your grandfather would say. And I think they thought I was threatening them, not informing them. These orcs – smarter than others, and yet still not smart enough." She sighed. The derision was an all too mild and all too fleeting distraction. She shook her head at herself._

 _"_ _I think you are fading," she whispered._

 _It was a jarring thought, and his body jerked at her statement. He felt as if he was in one of those dreams, the kind where he thought he was falling only to wake in his bed. It did not align with reality._

 _"_ _But I feel only, only unwell," he said in confusion._

 _"_ _You are fevered to fits," she recounted quietly, "You've not passed waste in perhaps days. You cannot move. You cannot take in food or even water. Parts of your extremities are, are blackened,_ ion. _You are unable to hold consciousness or memory, for long. I've even told you all of this before, do you even remember?"_

 _He did not. He let the thought sink in and considered it. He thought of death, of that long sleep, of a countless wait in the Halls of Mandos. He waited with held breath, almost eagerly, for the fear to come. For despair to descend, for that cold, hollow pit in his stomach to expand and consume him._

 _But mostly, he realized, he felt... sad. Sad that his mother had to watch him go this way. Sad that she was so agonized that she felt she had to end his misery by her own hands. Sad that he will not see his father again until the end of known time. Sad that whatever had transpired here beneath the cruel, jagged rocks, were things that Thranduil would always have to carry._

 _He was not sad for himself, he found with a detachment that he realized should be scarier than death itself but it was not. He was not unhappy for himself. Why would he be, when he'd almost fled this body and he barely felt anything really, as he had told his mother earlier, to her jolting fear. Now that, how she had looked, he could remember._

 _"_ _I am sorry I could not give you the mercy of a quick passing," she told him, "as you had so honorably been able to give our lost soldier. I am so very sorry."_

 _"_ _There is nothing to forgive,_ nana _," he said to her, soothingly. "And do not despair for me. I am not in pain."_

 _He gathered his waning strength, and though barely able to move, he shifted his heavy limbs closer to the iron bars of his prison. He moved slowly and sluggishly, but determinedly - until he was pressed against them, just as his mother was. And though his arm was swollen, heavy, and all he could claim was clumsy control of it, he slipped it between two bars and reached across the hall for her outstretched hand._

 _Their fingers brushed, and she seized him suddenly, like a lifeline. She clawed at his heavy, overwarm hand, clasped his swollen, discolored fingers. She strained and stretched, until her hand could rest on the pulse point at his wrist._

 _They held each other this way for countless hours, having only each other in the cold, silent dimness._

 _It was how Thranduil found them._

 **TO BE CONTINUED...**


	9. Salvation

**Hello friends!**

 **Anyone else in the mood to bring this story to an end this weekend? ;)**

 _No Grave, No Memory_ is done already. On hand and ready to go are an Epilogue that follows this chapter, my usual Afterword that explains the creative decisions made in the fic, and a Preview of my latest project too :) I am just trying to keep from posting everything all at once because by failing to pace properly, I know I will lose story exposure, readers and reviews. I struggle with this often. But as this off-peak, weekday posting shows, sometimes I just can't help myself :(

Readers who may be familiar with my work are also familiar with my lack of restraint, lol. At any rate, what does it matter what I am saying... Here we are with the new chapter within just a handful of days from the last one anyway hahaha :) Just remember to feed this hungry writer on your way out and tell me what you think, if you can. C&c's are always welcome and treasured :)

Thanks to all who read and especially all who review :) Personalized responses on the way later, I just thought perhaps I should show my gratitude the way I know best - a quick continuation to the tale :)

Without further ado:

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 **9: Salvation**

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

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"We were found by your grandfather at the feet of the mountains," Maenor says as he places another cool cloth upon the Prince's burning forehead. He picks up from where the tale leaves off and settles back on his seat beside Legolas' bed.

"We had just come from sites of slaughter at that point," Maenor continues with a grimace. "Merilel led us to the place of the first encounter, where we found Orthordir's body. She wept near inconsolably, and those from the village who were with us and knew him were just as mournful. It makes me angry now, at the time that we had taken to say a brief prayer for him before we moved forward. We knew we had precious little time and had to leave his burial for later. I did not even have long to examine his wound, for I think now that if I had, I would have seen how he was cut down by the make of the blade and the precision of its elven wielder. We left his body in the woods, and oh how his people wept for his loss and our abandonment of his hroa, not knowing of his treachery.

"We followed the tracks of the party," Maenor goes on, "to the edges of the woods, where we then found the tortured and dead royal guards. Thranduil would not even pause for a prayer or a thought after that. He knew we had to get to you and your _naneth_.

"When your grandfather came upon us, he was exhausted but otherwise suffered minor injuries," Maenor shares. "He hurried us along towards you, explaining on the road that you were betrayed by Orthordir, perhaps in conspiracy with others. He was their Silvan elder but even then, the betrayal was unfathomable to the villagers in our company. They could not believe it, they did not wish to. But the fact was driven home when the traitorous village guard who had intercepted us on the road from the stronghold gave himself away. He hurriedly abandoned us, turning tail with his horse, a confirmation that there was a deeply entrenched and somewhat organized betrayal within their community.

"One of the royal guards and another villager pursued him, Merilel included for she knew the ways and hiding places best; your _adar_ had initially struggled with that decision, for we were so shorthanded already. But lest the traitor betray our arrival to our enemies or do anything else to sabotage your rescue, he simply had to be stopped. Thus did our numbers decrease by four more.

"Your grandfather that wily old Silvan," Maenor continues with a hint of fondness for the ornery wood-elf farmer, "was unbothered. It was a mission of stealth he said confidently, and larger numbers would have been detrimental. He knew we could not win a direct confrontation with the Gundabad horde. We had to settle for the formation of a small rescue party to infiltrate rather than invade the mountain fortress. Your father was just as content with relying on stealth rather than strength of numbers. Not that he had much choice in the matter, but the revelation of betrayal in the village had him doubting who he could trust amongst those who were still with us. We were seemingly in an unwinnable situation. But your grandfather had one more ace up his Silvan sleeve. He had valuable information."

Legolas listens intensely. His attention span is shaky at best, his hold upon his emotions tenuous. He knows he is in a vulnerable position, but just then he does not care. He listens with all the focus he can muster, eager to hear the parts of the tale he had been afraid to care for for so long. The valiant deeds eclipsed by his pain must be given a chance to shine through. He is determined to get them into the light. He is determined to be released into the light...

"Gundabad had several points of possible stealth access," Maenor says. "Hewed into the mountain fortress were vents for the movement of air, for example, and irrigation routes linked to the Langwell for access to water. There were paths up in the mountains of course, and paths cut into its feet for supplies that otherwise would have had to travel over high passes. Your grandfather had escaped through a path poorly guarded, he said, one manned mainly by what looked to him as either non-combatant servants of the uruk-hai, or at most the dregs of their soldiers. It was an insecure supply route, not fortified because we were not in open war.

"The route as he described it to us," the healer recounts, "was comprised of a long vein through the mountain, with paths branching out from its sides. We would pass store rooms, he said – for food, their foul drinks, weapons and armory, and materials for digging, mining and the maintenance of their fortress. We would pass the weapons forges too, before reaching the prisons. It was narrow, he warned, because these were not their main halls used for assembly, planning or marching – these were servant paths meant for supplies and secondary, non-warring functions. By his warning he clearly meant the way could be blocked easily if we were spotted, and with many paths branching along its side, it was not unlikely that we could be intercepted at many points. But narrow also meant another thing – the vastly greater number of our enemies would be less important because they had to fight us in close quarters and not as a group. And no orc would have had a decent chance fighting your father or your grandfather one against one. The Sindar King and the Silvan farmer... they were both mad enough to like those odds."

The thought of it almost brings Legolas' dry, cracked into a trembling, tentative smile. His eyes shine, and he hangs onto Maenor's every word.

"And off we went," says the healer. "But once out of the woods we had to wait for cover of night to move. The open plains around the mountains were tricky to navigate lest we be spotted, but we reached our desired path at her feet quickly enough. The entrance was hidden, but your grandfather had scouted his way through previously and knew what he was doing.

"A handful of the best soldiers trusted by both the Elvenking and your grandfather went in with the pair of them," Maenor continues. "I can be handy with a sword at need, all of our generation have had to be. But your grandfather, learning of my main profession as the royal physician, would not have me anywhere but safely outside. It was our first inkling of how badly you were, Legolas. He said if they were lucky enough to make it out with you and your _naneth_ , I would have the most important job of them all. He asked for some of my _miruvor_ and herbs, but refused to risk bringing me."

Maenor remembers it well. His hand that itched at the sword on his belt. The fight that bucked inside of him, making his heart beat quickly, his thinking crystallize. He'd seen what had been done to his kinsmen on the road to Gundabad and he had an appetite for the enemy's blood. But at the old Silvan's words, he saw Thranduil stiffen. He saw the lines around the King's mouth and eyes tighten. He saw a muscle in his jaw jerk. They all knew they were likely going to be rescuing the prince and the queen in poor condition, but the old Silvan's impassioned determination to preserve the healer in anticipation of his impending usefulness had made it all too real.

"And so I was left behind outside of Gubdabad," Maenor says. "And our tasks included keeping the exit open at all costs and having the horses ready to fly. They vanished into a hole on the side of the mountain, a flurry of cloaks barely visible in the night, quick, soundless, lethal. Of all but one of them... it was the last I would ever see."

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 _Mount Gundabad_

 _Early in the Third Age_

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#

 _His vision had never ever been this clouded, but Legolas saw his father clearly, almost as if he was aglow._

 _Thranduil ran and skidded to a stop at his knees at the point in the hallway where Legolas and his mother held hands, and he lowered the hood of the cloak that concealed his light, so that he could look at each of them urgently._

 _Thranduil's glorious head of golden hair was pulled back severely and tied near the top of his head, falling into a neat tail that ran long behind him. He was garbed in his warrior's best, armed to the teeth and ready for a fight._

 _Legolas could not tear his eyes from his father, whom he always knew was formidable but had never seen quite like this. He was like a vision of the heroes from ages past, the kind written of in the books._

 _"_ _Thranduil you damned fool," the Queen greeted her husband with half-hearted censure. "You should have sent someone else."_

 _The Elvenking said nothing, but squeezed at the clasped hands of his wife and son, and looked up as his father-in-law started working on the doors of Legolas' prison. Another handy villager they had brought with them was busy working on the queen's. There were soldiers on the lookout around them, keeping careful watch that they would not be disturbed._

 _At a wordless, meaningful look from his wife, Thranduil rose and walked to where Legolas lay, pressed against the bars of his cell, unmoving, not speaking. His bewildered eyes followed his father's every move._

 _"_ _Legolas?" he called, to no discernable reaction other than a wide-eyed stare. "_ Ion-nin _?"_

 _Thranduil reached inside the cell, and stroked at his ailing son's hair, gently pulling strands away from his face. He winced at his son's fevered brow, and his stern countenance shook in torment and anger as he took in the rest of Legolas' form. The cloak that blanketed his nakedness was not enough to hide his blackened shoulders, his discolored arms, his swollen legs._

 _"_ _Can he be moved?" he whispered, for he was a veteran of the old wars, a soldier from a violent age, the son of a slain King. He knew what the living dead looked like, those who were just, just waiting for the final breath._

 _"_ _We do not have any choice," the Queen said from behind him._

 _Thranduil nodded, and he plucked out a flask of_ miruvor _from his robes. He lowered himself to the ground in an attempt to have Legolas partake of some of it. The young prince was still staring at him wordlessly._

 _"_ _He cannot take in drink," his wife told him shakily, and Thranduil's hands trembled for the implications of it. But he just nodded, wiped his hands at his clothes, and pressed his smallest finger into the opening of his flask, coating it with the precious, restorative cordial. He then lowered the digit to his son's dry, cracked, lips, which he wet with it. Legolas licked at the minute amount, and Thranduil watched if it would take._

 _When Legolas' gaze sharpened and he licked his lips for more, Thranduil lowered himself to the ground beside his son and did the same thing. They went through it several times, before Legolas found it in himself to say,_

 _"_ Ada _."_

 _The Elvenking nodded in satisfaction, before touching his son's overwarm cheek affectionately and rising to his feet. He walked to his wife's cell and knelt beside her. She released he hold on Legolas' hand to tug at Thranduil's hair. His lips quirked into a grim smile._

 _Legolas' cell was opened around the same time as that of his mother's. His grandfather hurried in to tend him, and so Thranduil went to check on his wife. The Elvenking's hands first went to the sides of her face, that he could look upon her eyes. He began to pat her body down for breaks, but she hurriedly captured her hands in his and held onto them insistently._

 _"_ _I do not think I can walk," she told her husband._

 _He nodded, and untangled himself from her hold so that he could examine her legs and feet. If he took notice of the blood streaked down her limbs, he made no mention of it. His gentle fingers ghosted over her broken toes, her lost nails, her burnt soles._

 _"_ _Let us try," he murmured, "and if you are unable I will carry you."_

 _She looked in Legolas' direction. "He needs you more."_

 _"_ _I have him," her_ adar _told her confidently, as he checked upon his ailing grandson._

 _"_ _Do you have a healer in your company?" she asked as she bit back a strangled cry. Thranduil had raised her up to stand and she tried to put at least some weight on her feet. They did not hold, and her husband was quick to sweep her off of them. He held her in his arms, closer than was practical but not nearly closely enough for his heart's need or desire._

 _"_ _Maenor awaits us at the exit," Thranduil assured her._

 _"_ _Legolas is in dire need of him," she said, briefing them quickly on her son's condition. "It is as you feared,_ adar _. He was tied by the wrists at his back, and hung from them for I do not even know how long. His shoulders were dislocated, I repaired what I could but they are damaged beyond my basic knowing. His limbs are discolored, at some points black." Her speech quickened as her distress heightened. "The swelling is so bad his skin is torn in parts. I do not think he took injury in his lower extremities but his legs are swollen too. I do not know wherefrom it comes, an infection from the tears on his skin or some other injury I do not understand, but he burns with a fever and it brings him fits. His attention wavers, he drifts in and out. I cannot keep him engaged, there are things he cannot remember. He's not passed waste in days. He does not feel much pain. He cannot keep down water. I didn't, I don't know what else to do."_

 _She spoke as she watched her father tend her son, and with every revelation of Legolas' struggles, Thramduil's hold on her tightened and tightened._

 _"_ _This is very grave indeed," the old Silvan said as he hurriedly examined his grandson and helped him slip into an extra tunic they had brought for him. "There is no time to waste. We must go." To Legolas, he said, "_ Laeg, _do you know who I am?"_

 _"_ _Of course," Legolas murmured up at him. "Grandfather."_

 _"_ _Do you know who you are?"_

 _"_ _Yes," came the hesitant reply, after a thoughtful beat. He was not sure what the eccentric had in mind in asking._

 _The old Silvan tsked at him playfully, as he arranged back the blanket/cloak he had removed from Legolas' broken body, to keep him warm over his tunic. "You sound unsure so I will clarify. You are a child of the woods. You are Silvan. And what did I tell you about us?"_

 _Legolas wracked his brain, and held firm to the tenuous control he was keeping on his mind._

 _"_ _We," he said breathily, "We can take a beating."_

 _"_ _That is absolutely right. Damned straight." His grandfather grinned at him. It was mad, wild, untamed, Silvan grin, but it faded quickly. "I will lift you now. Your_ naneth _says you do not feel pain, but I can almost promise you - this you will feel. Try not to struggle against me, try not to help. I will bear all the weight. Be kind to this old farmer."_

 _And with these word he lifted, and Legolas' world exploded in a wave of blinding white, before sinking into a deep, cold black._

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 _Escape, for Legolas, came in a series of piecemeal sensations and disjointed images._

 _He was in his wiry grandfather's arms, and he bounced lightly with the fleet-footed Silvan's jogging pace. He drifted off in the mildly rocking sensation._

 _He knew they encountered_ yrch _from the sounds of small skirmishes, the scent of their bodies and blood. This jolted him from semi-consciousness. His grandfather started running. Legolas knew because the footfalls were faster and heavier and, though he did not believe it was possible, even more painful. The backs of his knees and his shoulders bounced against his grandfather's arms, at these points where he was held and cradled. The world rushed by around them. His eyes rolled up in his head at the dizzying sight._

 _He jolted awake when an alarm was sounded in the fortress, and Legolas' grandfather went even faster. This made his footfalls heavier, and Legolas bounce harder and higher against him. He would occasionally bounce high enough that he could see from over his grandfather's shoulder. From this vantage point, he could see that they were running down a narrow hallway, and that there were a great band of orcs in hot pursuit. He also saw that the elven soldier they were with and had assigned to guard the rear had stopped running. He turned to face the horde with his sword raised. He turned his head to the side and yelled for the rescue party to keep running, but two of the villagers stood with him._

 _The three elves slowed down the orcs giving chase, killing many and scattering their bodies to the ground to block the way, to delay their push forward in pursuit of the escapees, to give the royal family the slimmest chance at escape._

 _Legolas saw the three heroes get cut down, mercilessly. He closed his eyes in grief, but spiraled away to unconsciousness in his exhaustion._

 _The narrow hallway seemed impossibly long, and when he stirred again they were still running. He woke in time to see the last guardsman at their rear be felled with an axe. There were now no more guards – no more heroes – between Legolas and the old Silvan who carried him, and the orcs that pursued them from behind._

 _"_ _Leave me," he moaned at his grandfather, even as he knew it would be futile. "Leave me, grandfather..."_

 _He wasn't sure if he was even heard, until the old Silvan defied him wordlessly and only held him tighter, and only ran harder. As he bounced with his determined rescuer's footfalls, he could see the orcs behind them running at a mad pace,_ as if the very whips of their master was behind them _..._

 _They were nearer and nearer to closing the distance between their bloodlust and their prey._

 _Legolas turned his head away in despair and saw his father running in front of them, the Queen held securely in his arms. Thranduil was fast and strong and covered a lot of ground, and Legolas was beginning to see a pinprick of light in the near distance, getting larger and larger. It had to be the exit. Escape was near._

 _His parents had a chance._

 _If they can survive, he thought, if they couldpleasejust live... they could begin a family anew. They would grieve for him, but they could sire a new heir, continue their careful reign of the Kingdom, especially in times that were becoming as tough as these._

 _He closed his eyes and sought out rest, and strength for what was to come. One way or another he would find a way to fight. He would buy his parents some time, just as their lost soldiers had tried to do for him._

 _He was jolted awake by a flash of pain. He was sent falling to the ground, as his grandfather was hit from behind. The old Silvan, a crossbow shaft protruding from his back, promptly shoved Legolas away and in one smooth motion, recovered his feet, drew out his twin white knives, and turned to face their marauding foes._

 _The old Silvan was just as much a beast of warring as the orcs were. He would slit their throats two at a time and toss their bodies aside, onto the next with barely a blink or a breath._

 _Legolas groaned and pushed himself up to crawl against the walls of the narrow hall. He took deep, quick breaths and felt his heart quicken and his mind sharpen as the battle seeped into his veins, lent him a reserve of determination and strength. He pushed up against the wall to sit, and he grabbed a sword from the dead hands of one of the orcs his grandfather had felled and set aside. And then onto trembling legs he pushed up against the jagged rock, and let it hold most of his weight as he more or less stood, as ready as he could possibly be in the state that he was in, to fight._

 _To die fighting._

 _He kept the heavy sword low and dragging on the ground. He decided he would lift it only at need, so that he could conserve his strength. He did not even test if he would be able to do so, for even his grip on the hilt felt tenuous. He prayed for strength. He prayed for a quick, merciful death. He could see his grandfather weakening, and he took a deep breath in preparation for joining the fray._

 _He glanced momentarily at his parents, hoping they would be well away. But to his crushing disappointment, his father had skidded to a halt and turned back to face him._

 _In the loudest, most demanding tone he could muster, he commanded the King – "Keep going,_ aran-nin _! Keep going...for the love of the gods!"_

 _But Thranduil was not going to have it. He lowered the queen to the ground, drew out his sword, and started running back to where his son stood. He was fast, but not fast enough to reach them when Legolas' grandfather took another hit and fell to his knees._

 _As one of the orcs stepped forward to issue the old Silvan the killing blow, Legolas pushed against the wall and threw himself and his borrowed sword forward with all his might. He and the beast that would have killed his grandfather landed in a mass of limbs on the ground. Legolas ended its life with a sword to its heart._

 _The old Silvan used the opportunity given him by Legolas to rise back to his shaky feet, fondly call his grandson a stubborn wood-elf, then raise his swords anew while Legolas recovered his breath on the ground, and used the sword plunged into his enemy's chest to push to rise. He then pulled the blade from the felled enemy's body, and drunkenly thrust it into the body of another. It was more a lucky kill than a calculated one, for he was breathless and dizzy, near-spent._

 _He pulled out the blade from his fresh kill, but needed all of his body's strength to do it. He staggered backwards on unsteady legs and nearly fell to the ground. His father reached him then and steadied him. Thranduil kept Legolas standing with a left hand to his elbow while keeping his other hand, his right sword arm, raised for a fight._

 _And thus did three woodland elves stand unbowed before a bloodthirsty orc horde in the enemy's very own mountain fortress: the wounded Silvan farmer with twin knives raised and an arrow protruding from his back. The half-Silvan, half-Sindar Woodland Prince who was also half-dead and half-dressed, using a borrowed orc sword and standing on borrowed strength. And the Elvenking himself, hungry and particularly lethal because all whom he loved in the world were with him on this last stand, here in the very heartland of enemy country._

 _The air was thick with tension as the three elves stared down their massed enemies. The two sides stood a few meters apart as they all pondered their options. Both the orcs and the elves sensed orcish victory. But even though they knew they would win, the orcs also knew the elves were going to take many down with them, and none of them wanted to be the ones to step forward first and be the one to die._

 _"_ _Surrender," one of the orcs said, "There is no escape."_

 _It took a tentative step forward and was trailed by a few of its compatriots. The three elves jointly stepped back._

 _"_ _Elvenking," the old Silvan goaded his son-in-law and in his native Silvan dialect, "If you are half the elf my wayward daughter has fallen for, you will have the stomach to bear my grandson away and leave me alone to deal with this filth."_

 _"_ _I have the stomach to deal with anything you can throw at me, Silvan," said the Elvenking mildly, as adept in the dialect as the other, "but I think I have a better chance of holding them off for longer while you bear him away."_

 _"_ _I can barely carry myself let alone another," the older elf said flatly. "The wounds I bear will not let us get far. Gather your scattered wits and find your balls, will you? Leave this old farmer in peace knowing his grandson is safe."_

 _"_ _You should both run and leave me," countered Legolas breathlessly. "I do not look like much but I swear I can buy you time, and you will be better runners without me."_

 _"_ _He is as log-headed as his mother and as arrogant as his father," Legolas' grandfather lamented. His eyes turned steely with resolve. "And you are both too slow to act."_

 _Without further consultation, he threw himself at the stunned orcs with his weapons raised. And Thranduil, unwilling to let his father-in-law's sacrifice go to waste, did the only thing he could; while the old Silvan occupied their foes, he hurriedly slung Legolas' arm over his shoulders and pulled him away._

 _Legolas tried to keep pace with his father but his swollen, unwieldly legs kept buckling beneath him, sending them to the ground a few times. Every collapse sent Legolas' mind spiraling away, but whenever they fell, Thranduil determinedly scrambled and pulled the both of them back up and forward, up and forward. Every time his father pulled at him, consciousness rushed into Legolas' body, dizzying and insistent._

 _"_ _Leave me," he moaned, but was duly ignored. He must have said it a number of times he thought, all to the same effect until he resolved that he might as well keep quiet. If his father was fighting so hard for him, then he could be just as determined._

 _Forward they went, closer and closer to the exit, and to the spot where Thranduil had left his Queen to sit and wait._

 _Except when they got there, she was suddenly nowhere in sight._

#

# # #

The Mirkwood

Third Age 2509

# # #

#

"My first sight of you was in your father's arms," says Maenor. "The Elvenking had burst out of the cave exit at a desperate run, carrying you. I thought for sure you were dead." He winces at the memory. Not only did he think Legolas dead, he looked like a days' old corpse. His body flopped along bonelessly with the King's every movement. His eyes were half-open and unaware, he was discolored and mottled, a bloated, swollen mess. But mostly, Maenor thought Legolas had died not from how he looked, but from the desperate madness in Thranduil's wide eyes.

"We had no time to examine you," Maenor continues, "for we went straight for the horses and ran at a mad pace away from there. The King held you before him and took point riding, while we protected you from the rear. I watched behind me. Our rescue attempt had stirred the hornet's nest – there were orcs streaming from every point of exit from the mountain. Sone of them went in pursuit of us, while others seemed to be just eager to escape Gundabad. Thick smoke was coming out of the vents and any other opening or hole from the foretrss. Some of the orcs running out were on fire, and all were sooted and coughing. My last sight of Gundabad as we fled away, was the exit you had come from collapsing in on itself. The winter cold and the sudden temperature rise from he fires within created thermal damage to the rock, or the fires ate at the support beams, I do not know. But it just folded. You and your father were the only ones alive of the rescue party to come out from there."

Legolas' brows furrow and he closes his eyes in a bid to remember more, but all the effort yields is a headache. He presses a hand over his eyes and head, and then pounds dully at them.

"But I don't understand," he says. "We were almost to the exit, us three. She was alive, near the exit. Near the light. Why did she not go out?"

"Your _adar_ informed us only briefly of what happened in that passage," Lastor replies. "the rest we had to piece together with the subsequent investigations. Do you recall I mentioned earlier that one of the traitorous village guardsmen had unknowingly been sent as a scout to follow where you were taken captive? In Gundabad, he spotted the rescue party in wait and gave its presence away. It was how the horde in that mountain practically came down upon you just as you were leaving."

"We fought to keep that exit open," Maenor adds. "There were skirmishes outside and from where we were, we could hear commotion within. And then we smelled the smoke, and felt the heat. We were running out of hope that anyone of the Elvenking's party would make it out of there, but we kept to our mission. The exit stayed clear and sure enough, out _aran-nin_ ran out bearing you with him. Coughing, sooted, despairing – but alive, having succeeded in rescuing you."

"Didn't you see the queen at all?" Legolas whispers, "Near the entrance? Do you recall nothing of what exactly had happened to her?"

Maenor shakes his head. "Of whatever had happened within that passage, I have no direct knowledge. All the king said after he allowed us to debrief him later on was that she had died in that frantic run to the exit. He said he couldn't save her."

Thranduil had kept that debriefing short, vague and dispassionate. But Maenor remembers well that the Elvenking was far from these things on that road from Gundabad.

 _It had practically been wrenched from Thranduil to command, "Move out!" and the healer Maenor, never having been a particularly good soldier by heart or profession, was the only one to hesitate at the King's hoarse command. Thranduil was still coughing from the smoke that had choked the passage, which spew heat and tongues of flame from its mouth. Maenor stepped forward to help Thranduil with carrying his son, and the King took a quick, breathless moment to pause at the entrance of the cave fortress he had just come out from, with an expression of such haunted regret that it shook Maenor to the core._

 _And then he reached for the end of his long, bound, golden hair, stretched it out, and with a flick of his sword, cut it close to his neck. He threw the long, glorious strands into the fire, before turning back to Maenor and reclaiming his son's body._

 _"_ _Leave the dead!" the Elvenking ordered, as he headed for his warhorse._

 _And off they went running, practically flying on the backs of their steeds, with orcs at their heels. But whatever had occurred inside the fortress, the pursuers were on foot, disorganized and many were injured. The enemy archers made poor attempts to halt the escaping elven party, and their arrows bounced harmlessly off armor, or missed wide around them._

 _Horse hooves thundered over rugged terrain, then over winter valleys and snowy plains. The world around them sped by in a blur as Thranduil led the way forward in search of a safe place to stop and tend to the wounded. No one tired, as long as the king in front of them blazed the trail._

 _Maenor watched Thranduil go in front of him, war horse eating ground. The Elvenking was an unparalleled rider on any beast, while the healer tried his level best to keep up and not break his own neck, if only because he knew his skills were needed._

 _Suddenly, the Elvenking's mighty steed swerved with the bidding of its master, and reared with a defiant neigh to a sudden stop at a clearing. The horse hadn't even returned to all fours before the King dismounted with his frail son in his arms, robes and cloaks flying behind him as he went to his knees on the ground and laid Legolas there._

 _"_ _Maenor!" he yelled, but the healer had already jumped from his own horse and was scampering forward with his well-stocked healer's pack._

 _Maenor skidded to his knees on the snowy ground beside his King and Prince, and he scrambled to examine the, truth-be-told, dead-looking young elf lying on the ground. If Legolas wasn't so hot with fever, and if fresh red blood was not running from his nose, Maenor would have bet he was long gone._

 _"_ Hir-nin _Legolas," he called repeatedly to the Prince as he placed a hand to the pulse point at the young royal's neck. It was there to Maenor's relief, but thin, thready and racing. When it stuttered, Maenor felt his own heart jerk and his stomach flutter. He was only more alarmed to find the elf was barely breathing._

 _"_ _Legolas," he called out more insistently, rubbing his knuckles at the other elf's chest. "Legolas, come on now."_

 _He did not yet understand what was ailing his patient, and he thought fleetingly that a more thorough examination might yield some useful information. He called for the assistance of other elves around them. He commanded one soldier to lay blankets upon the ground, so that the Prince could be laid in better comfort. He didn't know if they were setting camp here but he asked for a tent, but the Prince needed immediate attention and the King did not contest him so he asked for one, so that Legolas could be removed from the cold. Maenor commanded someone to start a fire and boil some water. He did not yet know what he would need it for precisely, only that he likely would. He spoke all of these as his adroit fingers removed his patient's clothes and then patted and ran down the battered body beneath._

 _On the surface of Legolas' ills were signs of beating, rope burns, exposure, and deprivation of food and water. There was a serious knife wound at his lower back, skin healing and the cut not infected but still tender. But there were damages of more menacing origins elsewhere upon him. The swelling in his extremities were severe, and there was particularly brutal damage to his shoulders and arms, where Maenor found blackened bruising, muscle injury and skin tears._

 _Maenor winced and his mind raced, as he formed a theory the outcome of which he did not welcome. He leaned over Legolas' face, opened his mouth and sniffed at the younger elf's breath. He pulled away and chewed at his lips as he pondered his options._

 _Or more precisely, because he had slim to none, he pondered what to tell his King. There was little to be done for an organ that was severely failing. All he could do was give Legolas comfort and care for his most immediate ills, and hope his body could survive and heal the damage inside. But Maenor knew that with the young prince's progression, the likelihood of that happening was poor._

 _The young elf before him was probably going to die, and as if to drive home that brutal prognosis, the breaths Legolas was barely making shuddered to a stop._

 _Maenor looked up at Thranduil, who read immediately what was in the healer's eyes._

 _"_ _No, Maenor, damn you," said the mourning husband and father, with tears welling in his angry, blazing eyes. He gripped Legolas by the damaged shoulders, and Maenor only briefly considered stopping him from paining his son further, but he doubted it mattered much, now._

 _"_ _Gods be damned, you stubborn wood-elf," the father hissed dangerously at his son, "Do you hear me, Legolas? Hear me now,_ ion-nin _and hear me well. You do not get to perish here, like this. Not after everything that has happened, not after everything we –_ I _– not after everything I have paid. Do you hear? If you die I swear there will be no forgiveness from me for your abandonment. I swear the only remembrance of you will be the blood of your people and the razing of all this land, for I will forsake the gods and defend nothing, stand for nothing, devote myself to nothing – except upon the complete and utter destruction of those who had claimed your life and that of your mother's_. _I will ground them to nothingness and dust, no matter the cost. I will find them no matter where they hide, and anyone who stands in my way will be dead by my hands. There will be no stone left unturned. I will flatten every mountain lest they cower there. I will empty towns, dredge rivers, burn forests - I will tear this world apart._

 _"_ _Do you hear me,_ ion _?" Thranduil seethed, and he shook for all his rage, and he shook for giving the kind of half-mad, heartbroken vow that only a cursed immortal can give, the kind that could change the face of the earth._

 _"_ _If you die, there will be no salvation for me," he whispered._

 _Maenor's healer's heart would not let it stand. "_ Aran-nin _..." he said shakily. "Do not let these words be the last he hears, please. That he has lasted this long is a testament to his strength, but there are some things he cannot move by his will, no matter how hard he should try. Please my lord, have mercy upon your son's soul and let him find some peace. This is not fair to ask of him-"_

 _"_ _Speak to me now of what is fair, healer, I dare you!" the Elvenking thundered, and his eyes could sear holes into Maenor's suddenly trembling form, for Thranduil was their King and commander not only by name, but by the very weight of his fea._

 _Maenor tried to find the courage in himself, in his healer's sympathetic heart, to say something back, to continue to plead his case._

 _But Legolas spared Maenor the bother. And Legolas spared his father the dangerous curse of his blasphemous promise by making a large, struggling breath._

 _Followed by another, and another –_

"What in all of Arda is going on here?"

Maenor jumps in surprise, and for a quick moment he is confused, for the dangerously angry voice of his memories of the brutal past had somehow sliced its way into the present. He promptly rises to his feet and stands at attention, just as Lastor and Brenion do.

Thranduil is inside Legolas' chambers, and stalking toward them with questions in his eyes, the smell of Dor-winion in his breaths, and a sense of danger to his purposeful stride. Maenor wracks his brain for an answer to give his king, just as surely as the two ministers with them were doing the same.

Legolas spares them all the bother. He does this because he knows Lastor is as equally capable of lying as he is with offering callous truths. Because he knows Brenion, as Thranduil's oldest friend, is capable of compassionate but inextricably pandering pity. Because he knows Maenor is likely to fall into saying a bad joke. And any of things could get all of them into Thranduil's bad side for a punishing century or two. So he took up the cudgels for them all.

He pushes up to his elbows and leans heavily against the back of his bed. For a moment he is dizzied and there is two of his father before him, so he takes a gamble and stares bravely up at one of them, hoping it is the right one.

"Maenor looks after me just as you instructed, _aran-nin_ ," he replies. "And our ministers are here to clarify upon misinformation I unintentionally made during my debriefing."

None of these were untrue, but Thranduil was not born yesterday. He stops beside Legolas' bed, and sits next to his arm.

"I'd mistaken what I had seen of the Lady Celebrian's torture with my memories of _naneth_ ," Legolas says truthfully.

Thranduil stiffens. "Well now that this whole sordid affair is sorted, you can be left for proper rest."

"We discussed my memories," Legolas confesses, "Things I'd forgotten that I remembered. We yielded valuable information that can be of some use to training our soldiers."

"My ailing son was debriefed on his sickbed, was he?" Thranduil asks, turning his eagle-eyed gaze disapprovingly upon his ministers. "He is fevered and ill, quaking in his bed, half out of his mind screaming nonsense and you interrogate him?"

"It was by necessity," Legolas says quickly, "and by my own choice-

"Have you taken over speaking for my ministers, who otherwise bicker and never shut their mouths, _ernil_?" Thranduil asks him, with an edge to his voice.

Legolas shakes his head, already feeling how his evasive, wily father is making attempts to control their line of conversation, away from things he does not want to discuss, away from thoughts he would rather bury.

" _Aran-nin_ ," he says tentatively, but changes his mind at his father's official title, for he too has his own means of controlling conversation with his domineering father. One cannot fight Thranduil with strength against strength, will against will, and expect to win.

" _Ada_ ," he amends, "As I said the debriefing was by my choice. The incident stirred in me questions that I was hoping you and our ministers would be able to address."

"This conversation is tired and the matter long at rest," Thranduil murmurs. His voice is soft, but there is a dangerous warning threading every syllable of his words. "The past is dead and gone. There will be no more talk of it."

"I have but one question and I beg your indulgence," Legolas implores. "We were all near the exit on that escape from Gundabad. Why did the queen – _naneth_ \- not leave with us?"

A dangerous silence clouds the room. Thranduil raises his eyebrows pointedly at his son. "This conversation is tired and the matter long at rest," he says again, with a sharper, thinner edge that is closer to cutting.

"Did you leave her so that you may carry me, _ada_?" Legolas whispers. "Did you choose me over her? How did she die? Are you even sure she is dead? What if-"

Thranduil's nostrils flare in his rage, but all he does is raise a hand for his rebellious son to cease from speaking. He stares at Legolas' anguished, earnest face coldly, and does not even look at his ministers as he speaks to them.

"You will leave the Prince's chambers," he told them flatly, dangerously, "and ponder all the ways you have... _disappointed..._ me."

Maenor hesitates, because always, he was a healer first before anything else, before he was a subject of the Woodland Realm, even before he was terrified of Thranduil. "I cannot be gone long. There are medicines he needs to take, _aran-nin_."

"It will be a brief discussion," Thranduil snaps, and the three ministers scurry away. Legolas tries to sit up straighter, wanting to be in a less vulnerable position in facing his father.

"What if she is still alive there?" Legolas asks, and tears well in his eyes at this thought that was both brutal blind hope and also deep-seated fear, helplessly entwined in each other.

"Oh she is dead, princeling, and how," Thranduil guarantees his son. "She is ash and dust. She is reduced to nothing, and thus she will stay." His voice catches, and he is at the very edge of anger, the very edge. But he tries to curb it by studying his son, who is gray-faced and trembling. "You really have no recollection, do you? Life is strange isn't it? How some of us try our hardest to forget, while others try to remember."

"What happened to _naneth,_ ada?"

"She died, Legolas, what else do you think happened?" Thranduil growls. "It was a dangerous endeavor and many died. Many. She died, just like everyone else who was not you or I. She died. Is that not enough to know?"

"No-"

"Well that is just too bad," Thranduil sneers as he rises to his feet and turns his back on his son, "for that is all that will be said of the matter. I will not speak anything more of this, and I will not suffer your questions."

"No, _adar,_ please - "

"This discussion is ended."

"No," Legolas argues, and he is angered now too, not just anguished. He pushes up from his bed to trembling arms, tugs away at his blankets in his own bid to rise, to not be so easily dismissed. "No. It cannot be left like this, _ada_ , I am losing my mind, do you understand? I lose my mind with returning there. I lose my mind with confusing one moment from another. I lose my mind not knowing. I have a right to know, _ada_. She was my mother and I was there, I have a right to know, more than you have any right to conceal things from me. You are not entitled to withhold my truths for your comfort and your convenience. These are my truths! I have a right to them."

"You, _princeling_ , have entitlements only as far as I allow them," Thranduil thundered at him, "You speak of your rights as if you have some monopoly on this tragedy, on her loss – "

"That's rich hearing this from you," Legolas seethes, "you who hoard her memory selfishly, like a dragon sated on his treasure."

"You are sorely mistaken if you think there is treasure to be found in the memory you seek," Thranduil says bitterly. "Let it rest."

"But that is where you are mistaken," Legolas argues. "Because I am betting she would have been brave. I am certain she would have risen to meet her fate heroically. She promised me, even in the worst of her ills, that her spirit will burn through. I am certain that is what she did. I know she would have been glorious-"

Thranduil turns to him so swiftly he takes Legolas aback, and suddenly his face is a breath away from his father's.

"She was faithless!" Thranduil says, darkly, dangerously. His anger pours from his soul, is mirrored in his eyes, is streaming from his mouth. "She failed us in every conceivable way. She failed us in bringing you to that accursed village and in the sphere of treacherous filth. She failed to sense betrayal under her own roof. She failed to protect you. She failed in escape. She failed me when she did not believe – "

He cuts himself off, and takes ahold of himself for he has started to shake almost as badly as his child.

"You are perhaps right in one thing, Legolas. She burned. She _burned_. You think you wish to know how precisely your mother died? Well let me relieve you of this one _curiosity_ ," he diminished his desperate desire for answers cruelly, "Her flesh melted from her charred, charred bones. Her face was deformed and devoured by hungry flame –"

Legolas' coherent thoughts desert him, then. In his mind's eyes and ears, he sees and hears how memories of his mother have been creeping up on him, of how the answers he seeks have been couched and hidden in the language he has been using in thinking of her.

In the spirit he was so certain would _burn_ through.

In images of _a fabled phoenix rising from the ashes with flames for wings, incandescent._

Legolas closes his eyes and lets the flames of memory licking at the edges of his mind devour and engulf him. He chases after it, all these thoughts of fire and flame. He thinks of a burning spirit with an angry, vindictive cry, and he thinks of his mother's mad, Silvan promise.

 _Later_ , she had said, _I will tear this accursed place down..._

The memories trickle in.

 _His father dragged him forward. The Elvenking hauled him up whenever he fell, and dragged him forward again. They fell together, rose together. His grandfather behind them was fighting like a Silvan – everything in, nothing left for later. But the orcs were many, and some slipped past his weakening defenses. The enemy were hard at the heels of Thranduil and his son._

 _They paused at where the Elvenking thought he had left the Queen. His head whipped from side to side as he tried to locate his wife. He had been so occupied picking up and propelling forward his wounded and rapidly weakening son that he'd lost sight of her, and the corridor they were in was lined by many paths and many doors and only lit dimly by the occasional mounted torch._

 _She emerged from one such side door a meter or so behind them, and was now between them and the orcs. She was crawling on her hands and knees because she still could not walk from the damage that had been done to her. She was inexplicably soaked to the skin, but not from water. Her tattered clothes were heavy with it, dragging on the ground that was also quickly soaking. Whatever room she had come from and whatever had been in there – it was leaking and spreading out into the hall. In rivulets, and then streams._

 _The smell wafted toward Thranduil and Legolas in the narrow, enclosed space. It was overpowering, making their eyes sting and their nostrils burn._

 _It was alcohol. The same foul, potent brew they had forced her to drink into pliant inebriation. It was a powerful concentration meant to be partaken by large bodies of incredible endurance. She had chanced upon the drink stores, in one of the many rooms that lined the supply hall._

 _The brew was foul and its stench overpowering in the tight space. More importantly perhaps, it was flammable._

 _The warrior queen turned toward her husband and said, "You cannot bear us both away, my love!"_

 _"_ _I can," Thranduil argued, already beginning to turn around for her, maneuvering around Legolas' heavier weight and clumsy attempts to move with him._

 _"_ _Take him and go," the Queen insisted, "Fly!"_

 _"_ Adar, _I am lost," Legolas drawled at his father, when his knees buckled again and he brought the both of them to the ground. He spoke as quickly as he could and even then he slurred. "Take her away and start anew. Take her away and start anew..."_

 _"_ _I swear I can –" Thranduil insisted, but the Queen chose that moment to save her husband from an impossible decision, and to save him from making a promise he would have broken._

 _She pushed up to her legs with a pained, strangled, determined cry, and threw herself against the wall, where a burning torch hung._

 _"_ _No!" Thranduil screamed, but she did not heed him._

 _She scrambled to cling to the torch and bring it down. It fell to the ground beside her with a crash of coal and tinder and oil and flame, which caught on her clothes, caught on the soaked ground, raced to follow the flammable, powerful vapors from the alcohol that surrounded her in a pool, and trailed into the room of its source, and trailed to where their enemies stood over her fading father's just-crumpled body._

 _Thranduil and Legolas gaped at her for a long, stunned moment. Her mouth opened and closed and she said something to them, something Legolas could not hear from the roar if the flames, for fire was so very noisy. He could not hear it from the savage beating in his heart that dominated his muffled ears. He could not even read her lips for his eyesight has long dimmed from his struggles, even before the smoke and the flames she ignited plunged the hall into limited visibility._

 _It might have meant nothing. For all he knew she was screaming. Or maybe her mouth was not moving, it was drooping down, melting off, her face distorted by the fire..._

 _Thranduil gathered his son into his arms, for the thick, black smoke was stifling the space, and the liquid and the vapors and the flames trailed toward them too, fire indiscriminate, devouring the evil, devouring the good, devouring the bodies of heroes lost alongside their cruel enemies. Devouring grandfathers, wives, mothers, with equal relish and efficiency._

 _He couldn't breathe, and ensconced in his father's arms, he could also feel the older elf's struggles and coughing as they ran to the exit. Legolas bounced with his father's frantic footfalls, and as darkness creeped on the edges of his vision, the last thing he saw from over his father's shoulder was his mother caught aflame._

 _But she rose to her feet, for by now the torture of them was equal to the all-encompassing torture of her entire body. She rose, and stood between her enemies and the family she so desperately wanted to save._

Legolas emerges from the vision panting, gulping in one desperate, inadequate breath after another. Tears stream from his eyes, down his cheeks, falling from the edge of his jaw, down to his father's sleeves, for Thranduil is now holding him by both arms, steadying him but also shaking him.

"You see now, don't you?" Thranduil insists, "and so now we let this matter rest-"

"No," Legolas gasps, gripping his father back. "No, _adar_ , she said something in the end. Her mouth moved, but I couldn't hear her from the roar of the flames, her last words, her last words..."

Thranduil sucks in a breath, and father and son look at each other for a long moment. Legolas can almost swear he sees tongues of flame on his father's shining eyes. He is lost in memory too and in all too many ways, had been right in his claim that Legolas had no monopoly on this tragedy.

The Elvenking's mouth opens, and closes. It let Legolas hope for a fleeting moment that he would be given an answer. It happens again, and Thranduil works his throat around the words lodged there. They are stuck and strangled. His face crumples for a brief moment at the inability to speak, to be _reduced_ to this quivering, confused, mute, paralyzed mess.

And suddenly, his expression closes. It _closes_ before Legolas eyes – at the twisted, crumpled look that first softens, then flattens, then freezes over. At the shining eyes that blink, blink, blink, until the tears shaking in them retreat and hide behind a sharp, glinted, glacial surface. All the lines of his face smoothen, all these grooves that speak of a life lived are flattened to an impassive surface. Gone are the laugh lines that once spoke of joy, gone is the wrinkled forehead of worry, gone the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that conveyed any sense of warmth. He is frozen over. And the final answer Legolas needs is lost beneath that surface.

"There will be no more talk of this," Thranduil says with a soft finality. Legolas knows by the steely expression on his father's face, by the sudden immovable calm, that the conversation is indeed over. His father has turned this page because to brush against it, to indulge in it, could very well be his undoing. Because _the grief is still too near_. Perhaps it would always and forever be too near...

"This sordid exercise is over," Thranduil continues, "by your King's command, Legolas. And I will suffer no more of your, or anyone else's, defiance. Whatever you learned from your memories that can help our soldiers has been secured and that is well and good, and what lessons are important will be imparted and passed on. But nothing of what had happened to you or your mother will ever be spoken of again. Never, never again. The past is gone, and further talk of this is forbidden. Do not challenge my resolve."

For a long moment Legolas considers arguing, debating, pleading, begging. But he is too tired, too heartsick. And most importantly of all, he holds his tongue because of how he fears hurting his father more deeply. For his mother's death hurt Thranduil indeed. Monumentally. Unimaginably. And so Legolas holds his tongue for his love of his father, and not because he is so ordered.

"Swear to me," Thranduil urges his son in a low voice, and the words are uttered somewhere between begging and commanding. "Swear to me."

Legolas takes a deep, shaky breath, and contemplates if it is really in himself to let things go like this.

" _Swear_ ," Tgranduil whispers, veering sharply in the direction of begging and Legolas does not have the heart to refuse him.

He blinks his eyes in tears at his own loss, at the loss of any more answers. But his love is stronger, he thinks, and he will suffer whatever he has to suffer. He nods.

With Legolas' wordless acquiescence on something Thranduil can recognize as difficult and painful, they are at peace again. All is forgiven. And they can move forward again, and they can banish the paralyzing ghosts of the past.

"You burn," Thranduil says suddenly, and the word 'burn' makes him wince but he says it nonetheless, for he feels his son's fever radiant from their proximity, and even through his blankets and clothes.

"Good gods, Legolas, what have you done with yourself," he mutters, as his son blanches before his eyes, and then sags in defeat, exhaustion and illness in his arms. Legolas' head lolls back, and Thranduil braces his son's body with his own, while reaching for the back of Legolas' head and neck to support him. Thranduil pulls Legolas forward into his chest, and sneaks in something that is suspiciously close to an embrace, as he leans forward and lays his son back to lie on the bed.

The Elvenking calls for Maenor, who rushes back inside in a heartbeat, not having gone far from there at all.

 **TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER** , an Epilogue of three interludes: a Kingdom waits for its Prince to wake; a Prince returns to his People; and a Father and Son find each other.


	10. Epilogue

**Hello dear friends,**

 **Let us finish this fic this weekend, shall we? :)**

I know poorly paced, undisciplined, frequent updates like mine suffer from a drop in reviews, and there might even be some confusion with the succession of posts, but when I'm done I'm just done, haha... And this particularly brutal fic has me feeling particularly antsy to move on. But these quirks of mine put together make me particularly anxious too, to sense if I've made the right creative decisions. So I do hope that if you can spare some time, let me know what you think :) If not, that is perfectly fine too :) I know this has not been an easy read, so I am just grateful for anyone who remains with me up to this part :)

 **Thank you so much to everyone who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed the work.** I cannot say this enough - you guys are indispensible to the process and community of fanfiction :) Wishing everyone a great read, and a great weekend!

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 **EPILOGUE**

 _In three interludes, a Kingdom waits for its Prince to wake; a Prince returns to his People; and a Father and Son find their way home to each other._

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* * *

 **Interlude 1: The Long Wait**

It is TA 2509 in Mrkwood, and the Woodland Realm waits for its Prince to wake, just as they have always waited for him.

* * *

Legolas sleeps for a long time.

 _It is good for him_ , the healer had said, but Thranduil will feel no ease until those glacial blue-gray eyes open again.

The waiting is familiar to him. He'd waited for his son to wake in many instances at various grievous states since Legolas became a soldier. But this most recent incident, the grievous injuries he had suffered as a consequence of the rescue of the Lady Celebrian...

All of it – the circumstances of captivity, Legolas' illness and delirium, the memories that assaulted him and those he actively pursued – all of it came too close, much too close to Thranduil's greatest heartache, his greatest defeat.

The tragedy of his wife's violent passing earlier in the age matched only that of his father Oropher's loss in the previous war. If Legolas had followed in their wake, Thranduil is sure he would have lost his mind.

He looks at his son asleep on the bed. Eyes closed worryingly, though Maenor was again, quick to assure him it is by design of the medicines, and duly according to the course of treatment.

Legolas is in a much better state now than he had been back then, at least. Now his fair face is unmarred, beautiful even as most would say. It was a stark contrast to the distant but lingering past...

 _When they brought him home from orcish captivity centuries ago, he had been swollen and discolored, comatose rather than asleep, more dead than alive. He'd been beaten, starved, stabbed, left in the cold and hung mercilessly. It was this last torture that had him hurting so. Maenor said – his body was failing organ by organ from the inside. All that could be done for him was to tend the symptoms and hope he could live long enough so that his body could mend itself._

 _They fought for him for months._

 _He missed the brief memorial that had been done for his mother and all those who had been lost with her in Gundabad and the far northwestern woods. Thranduil wanted no event to single out the Queen; he did not want it personally and knew she would not want it either. Their people built a pyre, made their offerings, sang their prayers and tributes. And then Thranduil unleashed drink upon the mourners, turned his back on them, and returned to his son's side. At that time, they did not yet know for certain that Legolas would survive._

 _But survive, he did. The swelling went down, the mottling of his skin retreated. What they left behind was a shell – pallid, marble-white, abused and overstretched skin settling for a while on prominent bones like oversized clothes. He looked gaunt and old and dried out. He looked shrunken and withered. His breaths were small and rattling, but he was alive and there was a determined Silvan elfling in there, fighting his way to the light._

Just as he fights now, Thranduil reminds himself. Just as he had always fought. Just as he will always fight.

Muffled sounds from beyond Legolas' chambers creep into Thranduil's awareness, and pulls him from his thoughts. This sound is familiar too, for he is never the only one who waits for his son to wake.

Vigils for soldiers are not uncommon. For the gravest cases, a loved one or two are often let into the healing wards to sit with the injured or ill. The corridors outside the healing halls, however, have none of these restrictions and are often lined by family, friends, colleagues and other sympathizers, waiting for news of those they loved who were waging battles inside. Benches line these ways for those who wait, but in cases of wide-scale battle injuries or particularly beloved members of their Woodland community, the seats were inadequate and the halls tended to be crammed, full to the brim.

Whenever Legolas takes injury, this is often the case. In the healing halls, he is initially treated in a private alcove reserved for the royals (which is just him really, for the Elvenking had had long been prevented by protocol from joining patrols). He stays there for surgery or monitoring, and the outside halls are crammed by those who love him. Once stable, he walks by his own power or is transferred to his own chambers in the royal residences. There he stays for rest and recovery, or whenever he requires a longer convalescence. It is both for his comfort and privacy, but also for the privacy of his father the King, a frequent visitor.

After Celebrian's rescue and the injuries that drove Legolas to a ranting delirium, Thranduil had this done as well. They transferred Legolas to his own rooms in the royal residences, to keep him from being heard by others.

Usually the well-wishers leave them alone by the time Legolas is taken away. But whenever he takes particularly grievous ills, the sympathizers tended to follow and drift to the bounds of the residences too, like they do now. In large numbers they wait just beyond the restricted royal residence halls, and Thranduil can hear them from where he stands.

 _The first time Legolas became severely injured was when he was an elfling captured with his mother in Gundabad. He was young then, and not yet a soldier so his well-wishers were relatively few. His Sindar friends came to see him of course, and they arrived with their parents. The young ones looked pale and uncertain, never having been visited by violence of such gravity in their short lives before._

 _A number of Silvans eventually came to visit too; people from Legolas' grandfather's village who had been cleared of the conspiracy, villagers who had helped aid in his rescue, even some of the children Legolas had taught archery._

 _They were earthier folk, and brought the Woodland Prince offerings to help him, as if the Realm was undersupplied. But it was simply how heir small community looked at the world – they had to do what was in their power to help each other. They brought medicinal leaves, herbs and flowers, some of which had properties new to the healing halls of the stronghold and have since been replicated and widely stocked and used. They brought the Prince fresh fruits and vegetables from his late grandfather's gardens, for his speedy recovery. They baked goods made of acorn flour. They brought him quilts and linens for bandages._

It was Thranduil's first inkling of the years to come because now - his son's visitors numbered plenty indeed, and came from all walks of their Woodland life. There were Sindarin nobles, mixed in with Silvans of miscellaneous social standing, and soldiers including Legolas' colleagues, commanders and subordinates.

Unlikely friendships are made in these halls while they all wait for word of their Prince, and stories are shared. It is why all chaos and disruption notwithstanding, Thranduil can never send them away. Sometimes he even drifts out of Legolas' chambers and into the halls, beyond the visitors' sight and hearing but just meters away so that he can hear them and derive comfort from them. He would lean against the doors or the walls and listen to them talk about his son or just talk to each other about their lives.

Sometimes, the smell of cookies and cakes made of acorn flour would waft in his direction, and he knows there is a Silvan baker in attendance, likely the _elleth_ Merilel or her younger sister, Hadrien, who had become one of the Realm's most skilled archers. They have a habit of sharing their goods with their fellows, and know Legolas loves the woodsy, nutty smell.

Whenever there are bawdy jokes and court intrigue, the Sindarin nobles Legolas had grown up with are there. They like recounting the more embarrassing exploits of his youth because it was when they knew him best, and it was also a signal of their inextricable privilege, that they can make fun of him and show everyone they knew him the longest and earliest.

Whenever these young male elves fell into more dignified and subdued manners, the famously gracious and incandescent Lady Mallossel is almost certainly in attendance.

And whenever Mallossel's noble bearing and infamous poise falters... the rigid, serious Silvan Captain Melchanar whom she has adored for centuries has likely arrived. His cluelessness of her quiet, unrequited affection continues, and this is part of the story that Thranduil observes unfolding in his halls.

Elves from Legolas' company would come too, and elves he had trained or aided or worked with in any fashion. Stable hands and woodworkers, cooks and weapons forgers, seamstresses and farmers, young and old... they all rubbed elbows with Sindarin nobles here, and no one batted an eyelash.

When Legolas came home battered and motherless all those years ago, he became a true child of the Woodland. Everyone around him took it upon themselves to be in personal charge of his happiness. He never lacked for friends, mentors, even surrogate mothers. How else could he have emerged from his experiences with such fierce, insistent light, if he did not become everyone's son and was not warmed by his whole Kingdom's devotion?

Thranduil sighs. He never quite liked sharing, but Legolas his own child, he has had to share among their people.

His personal attendant enters Legolas' sleeping chambers with a sealed parchment in hand. Even from a distance, Thranduil could see the seal of Elrond of Imladris' house. He beckons the other elf closer, and the attendant bows and promptly hands the document over to the King.

Thranduil opens it. His eyes race past the gracious opening platitudes that protocol-laden Noldorin letters tended to begin with. It was apparently a habit of propriety Elrond could not shake even when he was talking about what had befallen his wife.

It is a note of deep and profound gratitude for the assistance of Woodland soldiers in the rescue of the Lady Celebrian. Elrond gives special words of commendation and thanks for Captain Legolas Greenleaf, whom he would one day be honored to welcome to Imladris.

" _My home will always be open to him for any need_ ," Elrond writes, " _and he will always be a brother to my children, though he does not know them yet. And you his father are a brother to me for all that your people have done for my wife, if you will have me."_

Elrond then gives an update on his wife, " _For your people have a right to know of her fate, having been so instrumental in saving or her life and restoring her to out home."_

Celebrian, Elrond reports, is alive and expected to recover physically. But he fears she would have to sail, the Undying Lands being the only chance at true salvation for her tattered soul.

Thranduil takes a deep breath, folds the letter and sets it aside on a desk in Legolas' room that he has commandeered for work while sitting with his son. There is a strange sting in his heart that he banishes quickly – the spark of jealousy that Celebrian is alive, while he had lost his wife in similar circumstances centuries ago and his son now lies gravely ill for his efforts in saving the Lady of Imladris.

He dismisses the thought, and is grateful that Legolas will wake to good news, _this time_. Centuries ago, Thranduil had to wait for his son to wake, for he had to be the one to tell him his mother was dead.

Hi sighs again. It is one more day in a litany of days he would rather forget.

 _Legolas' eyes opened, but he was not awake, not yet. He was no longer comatose, but still walking in dreams. He stayed this way for a fortnight._

 _When the glassy, half-lidded eyes sharpened and really opened, he was awake but the elves around him did not know just how aware he was. He drifted on and off in this state for a week._

 _When his gaze finally took on clarity , this was when Thranduol decided to tell his son about what had become of his mother. Maenor had been hesitant; the healer did not want to risk Legolas falling into renewed shock or crisis from the news. But Thranduil did not think he would be able to hide it from his son – not in his face, not in his tone. Nor did he want to. Legolas would ask, he knew, and after everything he had been through, he should not be lied to._

 _Thranduil had been so certain, until the time came and he had to utter the words out loud._

 _"_ Ion-nin _," he said, and his voice trembled slightly. "You are safe, and we are home. You were hurt most grievously but you are well tended and will recover fully. But if you seek your_ naneth _, I am so very sorry to say that she cannot be with us. She was lost."_

 _To Thranduil's surprise and confusion, Legolas barely reacted. He drifted back into elven dreams, and Thranduil and the healers around them were unsure if the younger elf did not understood what was said to him because he was still ill, or if he understood but had no strength to do anything with this new, heartbreaking knowledge._

 _And so in another day, when his son's gaze once again cleared, Thranduil did it again._

 _"_ Ion-nin _. You are safe, and we are home. You were hurt most grievously but you are well tended and will recover fully. But if you seek your_ naneth _, I am so very sorry to say that she cannot be with us. She was lost."_

 _The same thing happened, and it did again and again. Thranduil felt he was breaking his heart over and over, but he just did not know for certain what Legolas understood and what he did not. He was about to repeat the process when Legolas woke one more time, but things were different now._

 _Legolas' eyes opened as ready pools, as if he had been crying even before he woke._

 _"_ _Please do not say it," he said, and his voice was a rasping, gravely, broken thing. "I know. I've known since you first said."_

 _Thranduil blinked at the tears lodged in his own eyes. He realized then that Legolas had been hearing and understanding him, but just kept slipping away. Perhaps in grief, perhaps in escape, perhaps in illness._

 _"_ _I am sorry," Thranduil told his son – sorry for breaking both their hearts again and again with every new utterance. Sorry for the loss. Sorry for not saving her. Sorry for what he had gone through. Just so_ damned _sorry about everything._

 _But Legolas returned to him then – rebuilt his mind, his body, his heart – and found his way back into the land of the living somehow._

 _And because Legolas survived... Thranduil had to._

The elf on the bed stirs. The rhythm of his breathing stutters irregularly, and his eyelids flutter.

"Legolas," his father calls him, " _Ion-nin_."

The blue eyes open, and the Woodland Prince awakens at last.

* * *

 **Interlude 2: Ever Widening Spheres**

It is 2509 in Mirkwood and Legolas slips on his soldier's uniform for the first time in weeks, as he returns to duty after a long convalescence.

* * *

His fingers feel stiff and weak, and he mutters with dissatisfaction as he maneuvers clumsily at the clasps of his leathers.

He'd been confined to bed for days, then to his chambers after that, then the royal residences... in a gradually widening sphere of territory as he recovered from the wounds and poisoning he had suffered after the rescue of the Lady Celebrian of Imladris.

Today is his first day out since that mission. It is his first day out of bedclothes and convalescent robes, and into his warrior's greens and browns. He is not yet allowed beyond the immediate environs of the stronghold much less to engage in combat anywhere, but he was unaccustomed to being unarmed and simply had to have weapons on his person. It is part and parcel of his warrior's garb, like how his _naneth_ used to walk around the residence with her knives. They are like a second skin.

He looks at himself in the mirror he kept in his chambers. This is also his first excursion in public. He'd had visitors ( _and how..._!), but being out and about is entirely different, for it multiplies the eyes under which he would be subject to judgment. He does not want to hear anything about being up too soon. He does not want to suffer pity or coddling. He does not want to be withheld from duty for any longer than he already has. He refuses to malinger here a second longer, and he has to look strong and able for it.

He scowls in displeasure, as his clothes hang from his body. At his gaunt features. At his pallid skin. He needs to restore mass, strength and vitality. But first he needs to impress the healers with looking hale so that he could go out and engage in training and activities of fitness. Ironically, he can't look hale until he becomes active, but he isn't allowed activity until he looks healthy.

He hisses at his own reflection.

It is how his father finds him, and he sees Thranduil's amused expression from the surface of the mirror as the Elvenking appears behind him.

It is a good icebreaker at least.

Legolas thinks on this as he turns to face his father with a chagrined expression. His latest injury had been unkind not only to his body but his mind and heart, as well as his father's. The two of them have had to look at long-buried truths these past weeks, but a few confrontations do not completely exorcise centuries' old ghosts, _oh no_. The past still lingers, and father and son still hold things from each other. But as long as the secrets hold, apparently Thranduil is ready and able to move forward.

His eyes crinkle at the edges, the most he could give of a laugh, nowadays. Legolas clings to it nonetheless. It is a log for a drowning elf. He returns with a wry smile and he does not mind looking silly if it means things are more or less well between them.

But really, he berates himself, he should have been prepared. He should have known that Thranduil would make time to see him on his first day out from convalescence. The Elvenking, no matter how he busy he was, always made it a point to walk out with Legolas on these occasions.

 _The first time Thranduil did it, Legolas was on his way out the doors of his chambers for the very first time after his mother died, after months of sleep and weeks of fervent effort to recover some strength when he finally woke._

 _The weakness of his limbs in some ways gave them a distracting project to focus on instead of their shared loss. Legolas had to re-learn walking for a time, and had to be aggressive with rehabilitating his arms. The immobility also kept Legolas in seclusion until he looked better and became stronger._

 _Finally he was going to be let out the doors and though he looked to be on the mend, Thranduil had been worried. Legolas saw it in his father's eyes. The Queen's death had changed things drastically between them, and for the longest time Thranduil kept looking at him with fear._

 _Was he really recovering?_

 _When it was apparent Legolas would live past his injuries, the next question became – would he fade in grief?_

 _When he did not, the next doubt stemmed from whether or not his long immobility would jeopardize his physicality._

 _When work proved this fear futile and Legolas' recovery true, the next worry turned to Legolas' attitude. Was he adjusting well to the sudden kid gloves their people were treating him with, save perhaps for his callous friends? Corollary to this - was this notorious bunch saying insensitive things that could jar his current vulnerability?_

 _Legolas showed resilience in both his people's coddling and his friends' joshing. And though his people had to cultivate it carefully for years, he had even started laughing again. He was laughing long before Thranduil had been able to._

 _For all of his worries, however, Thranduil had forgotten to examine himself, and how he was treating his own son. This became all too clear when Legolas came of age and asked his father if he could train formally as a soldier and become part of the ranks. The Elvenking's instinctive reply was a vehement, "Of course not!"_

 _Thranduil did not know what he wanted of his son at that point. Thranduil was the soldier-King of an embattled people, who had suffered monumental fatalities due to lack of preparedness and skill in a previous war. Since the death of his father from a brave but futile charge, he had worked hard on building a severely militaristic society. Even his late wife had been a soldier. But after nearly losing Legolas, he never thought of actually deliberately sending him out to be a warrior. He never entertained the thought of assigning Legolas into patrols and skirmishes or later, even battles and war. It just never crossed his mind, and he had no alternatives to offer._

 _Could he for example, prevail upon his son to become a politician instead? A healer? Perhaps a minister with a specific skill set, someone who could be put in charge of trade? Agriculture? Diplomacy? Good gods he was even willing for his son to be a minstrel instead, anything but that which he was asking._

 _Legolas frowned, and tilted his head at his father thoughtfully._

 _"_ _I know you fear for me,_ adar _," he said carefully. "And I understand fully why. I too, am afraid. But would our fear not be lessened if I were more prepared, and more able to defend myself if I should ever be attacked again?"_

 _It was sound reasoning, and Thranduil comforted himself with the fact that it was_ only _training, after all. Legolas could so occupy himself, and later Thranduil wouldn't have to send him away anywhere he did not, as Elvenking, wish to. If anything, having Legolas as a part of the command structure further solidified Thranduil's control – and protection – of his life._

 _Thus did Legolas go off into the training ranks. But never quite destined for an ordinary existence, he excelled in training and rose to the top of his class. With every achievement Legolas made and every accolade Legolas won, Thranduil battled with his pride, his pragmatism and his fear. He felt incandescent from his son's prodigious, singular skills. He felt assured that he had such a soldier in his Realm's ranks in the increasing darkness, and saw a great future for him. But he was also inextricably a father, one who had experienced his son's near-loss, and he was deathly afraid because it was apparent that his son had gifts to give. It was only a question of whether or not Thranduil would release him to a world that demanded his talents. A world that demanded his blood. A world that may even collect his life._

 _Thranduil did not release him, at least not right away._

 _Legolas' first assignment was with the night guard in the stronghold, where many of the apprehensions he made and the peace and order situations he handled concerned his rowdy friends. There actually had been a spike in minor incidents of mischief, for the young Sindarin nobles of this merry group believed the Thranduilion would be more lenient with them. He was not, but whether or not such a strict attitude bore any fruit, no one would ever know. Legolas was promptly reassigned to the guard just outside the stronghold._

 _When the south demanded more soldiers and the numbers assigned to the capital thinned and whoever remained had their duties expanded, Legolas found himself in service to the Quartermaster. Legolas ventured out on short missions outside the stronghold to protect supply wagons to the nearest villages and outposts. And then he was allowed to venture to the ones just beyond them. And then the ones beyond those..._

 _One day, the Quartermaster's delivery ran afoul of some orcs, and Legolas conducted himself so well he earned the admiration of his peers and his commanders. He also won expanded duties that threw his superiors into conflict with what the Elvenking wanted – to keep his only child close by and safe._

 _For awhile Thranduil bucked against the gradual creeping of expanded responsibilities and greater danger into his son's professional life. Legolas was given a command, but drawn back into the stronghold's bounds._

 _But the attacks to the south were getting bolder and bolder. And on another day, a massive call for reinforcements arrived and he was in charge of the unit most able to quickly respond. He went running, he had to – and Thranduil did not even have a chance at goodbye, even less at preventing him from going._

 _Again Legolas conducted himself heroically. And as the darkness of the south grew larger and expanded upward, the Prince of the Woodland Realm grew in skill and reputation to counter it._

 _There was no more hiding Legolas from the dangerous demands of their world. Commanders even actively started risking the ire of the Elvenking in brazenly asking specifically for Legolas when it came to difficult assignments._

 _Unfortunately, the harder the duties, the more Legolas became injured. Thranduil wondered if he would ever get used to it. If this scar – the spiritual wound of seeing his son bleed - would ever cease from reopening every time he saw Legolas injured or ailing. If it would_ please _just thicken into callouses, so that he would feel it less and less._ Please. Please.

 _And Legolas... he too, hoped for the same. For his father to worry less, to hurt less. He spent more time away doing difficult things to prove he could survive it. To prove he could excel in it. To prove there was nothing to fear. To prove they could win._

 _And whenever he got hurt he hid more. He licked his wounds in solitude and dealt with injury on his own if he could help it. Only with the most grievous hurts did he ever return (or perhaps more precisely, be sent perforce) home, which helped Thranduil's nerves not at all. And they had to start the dance anew._

 _Legolas would take assignments first in the bounds of the stronghold then gradually moving out, farther and farther. Then he would do dangerous things and he would return home less and less..._

 _In this way the past – his mother's death and his own brush with it – became a ghost that hovered over their shoulders and governed over everything they did. It governed over the assignments Legolas took. It governed over the time they spent together and away. It governed over the fears and secrets they kept from each other._

But for all that the past dictates on their present, Thranduil is always there to see Legolas back on his feet, back in uniform, back to work, back to face his people again.

"You're late," Legolas teases his _adar_ , and a small smile plays at his quivering lips.

"You look terrible," Thranduil tells him with unmasked displeasure that is only half of a joke.

* * *

 **Interlude 3: Where You Go**

At Ravenhill on TA 2941 and during the events of _The Battle of the Five Armies_ , Thranduil finally answers the question Legolas had sworn never to ask again

* * *

 _Maybe it is in our_ blood, Thranduil ponders miserably.

His father, Oropher, had been enamored of the Woodland and the people in it. He himself had found love here and gave the Realm a wild, Silvan Queen. Aa for his wayward son... He sighs. Of course Legolas falls for a Silvan's fiery ways, they all did. Of course she is leading him into ruin.

 _They all do..._

He marauds his way into that accursed Ravenhill that his son saw fit to enter and defend. There are bodies everywhere – elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, _uruk-hai_. His heart jumps into his throat each time he sees a head of golden hair. This whole dwarven misadventure had taken on an entirely different tone and scale.

He distracts himself from mounting despair by cursing at the orcs, many of whom hailed from that equally accursed place where –

He cuts off that particular line of thought and curses at the _naugrim_ instead. This pebble in his shoe has morphed into a mountain of boulders over his head. Poor fools hungry for their lost mountain home, pining for fallen greatness, blinded by their cause even before their leader was visited by madness, unthinking in how their quest would affect the communities around them.

And now his son is missing.

 _Curse_ them.

He curses Mithrandir too for all his mischief-making no matter if it was by some deluded way the design of the gods. The gods... wherever they were, as if they still really cared about the miseries of this Earth.

He curses the Silvan Captain Tauriel and her preoccupations, and how she had ensnared his son in mortal danger twisted around a mix of idealism to help all the people of this clearly already damned world, and her childish infatuation for a damned, damned, _thrice damned_! dwarf.

Thranduil is now churned into a mood, and he curses the soldier who had pointed him in this direction. _Aran-nin look_ , the mesmerized fool had said, and Thranduil followed his gaze to find his son riding a winged war beast into chaos and fray.

Thranduil had stormed unthinking toward Ravenhill afterwards, and had been duly followed by his people. And he cursed his legs too for swift as they were, he felt they were not nearly swift enough. He caught sight of his son fighting in a toppled, crumbling tower, where death was to be found everywhere a slim misstep away – in the blades of the enemy, in its clawed hands, in a fall that would have broken any body.

He curses his late wife for gifting him with that foolish, beautiful, reckless, breathtakingly gifted child. In full display before Thranduil now - never mind that he had never wanted his son to need it unleashed – was Legolas in all his relentless, unforgiving power. Surprisingly principled too, Thranduil concedes grudgingly.

 _"_ _If you harm her you would have to kill me..."_

It was their last interaction before parting, to Thranduil's profound regret. Legolas had said it in defense of the foolish Tauriel. Threatening the Elvenking, raising a weapon against one's own sovereign no matter the reason, no matter the delusion, no matter the cause – is a crime justifiably punishable by death in many cultures, was it not? Yet Legolas somehow defused the situation and even now Thranduil wonders – who thinks like that? For his son to exhibit both dangerous defiance while skillfully avoiding treason at the same time? To say in so few words that he would die for his love of the _elleth_ but also for the love of his father, because he would not fight back?

 _"_ _If you harm her, you would have to kill me..."_

Thranduil sighs. He wants to curse Legolas too but he saves it for later. He does not release that thought, not yet. He would curse his son only as soon as he knows he is alive and well.

Thranduil keeps looking. He is no stranger to death, by the gods, he wishes it were the case. But the last time he and Legolas had been in combat together, he had to carry his half-dead son out of a crumbling cave on fire, leaving the body of his wife behind.

He shakes his head and tries to banish the thought, but he does not succeed. This entire exercise is woven through with memories of his wife. In the jewels he had commissioned for her but had written off as lost in Erebor for years, finally within his reach. He was so desperate to reclaim it and rid himself of that final dangling reminder that he had somehow shoved thought of her back into his life anyway. And then there was that fiery Silvan _elleth_ whose defiant tendencies were only all too familiar, and naturally attractive to his son. And finally here he was again in a rocky path littered with death, hoping against hope that he could still save Legolas.

He searches face after face after face, body after body after body, making his way up, making his way deeper. He is a hair away from screaming when the Prince himself strides forward.

"I cannot go back," Legolas says with finality, even before his father finished raking longingly and searchingly over his face and form to ensure he was well. Even before Thranduil could relish in the barest relief that his son is still, against all odds ( _again_ ) alive. But he us hurting, Thranduil could not help but note. There are things he has seen that do not sit well with him. A battle of such a scale would be new; Legolas was a child of the Watchful Peace, after all. He is also new to the kind of mass, interracial death such a battle can yield.

Legolas pushes past him, and Thranduil holds his tongue at 'Why.' He knows why. The distance between them has grown longer and wider since the dimming of the world pulled them to different but equally important duties, as well as differing opinions on what to do to combat the creeping evil.

Loss has taught Thranduil to keep everything desperately close. Narrow the territories, shut the borders, lock the gates, recall the diplomats, cease outside interaction, turn away strangers, trust no one. Act with caution and weather the changing face of the world. As his people's king, he was tasked to see them through. To be conservative. To survive.

Legolas, on the other hand, is compelled toward the wider world. Whether this is by influence of the idealistic, globalist Tauriel whose views he internalized or his own sense of right and wrong, Thranduil does not know. Whatever Legolas had seen in this battle only served to buffer what had perhaps been brewing in his mind; there are dangers beyond the woods and beyond their people. And lately, by Legolas' own moral compass and strategic insight, sometimes even by some invisible hand of chance and fate, he keeps going off and outward to explore and address it.

The elven prince had protected dwarves from orcs while they were on the run from his father's own dungeons, for example, incidentally facilitating their escape. He had followed Tauriel in her self-imposed mission to further aid them. He had helped a human town besieged by a dragon. He had even gone to Gundabad, Thranduil was told, to satisfy his eagle-eyed observation that a symbol he had seen while held captive there was being borne by their current foes. And he was indeed correct in the belief that there was something brewing in Gundabad that could have spelled disaster for Erebor.

He cannot go back, indeed. Home had become too small, perhaps, and his worldview too different from his insular father's. Things were afoot beyond the bounds of the woods. But Thranduil did not have the luxury of leaving. He also did not have the ability to forget a brutal lesson history once taught the people of the Woodland – venturing out _en masse_ as Oropher had in union with other peoples against a shared enemy is not always wise.

Legolas walks away from him, apparently content to leave this way. But Thranduil is not. He cannot let things be like this between them, as they all stand upon the precipice of a coming dark.

"Where will you go?" he asks, because he needs more time. He needs more time. With his son, why is he always so short of time?

"I do not know," Legolas admits, and this stings them both. Because he is not headed _toward_ something, he is simply headed _away_. Away from the Woodland. Away from Thranduil. Away from Tauriel. Just – _away_.

Not wanting to have his son aimlessly wandering about Arda like a homeless runaway or unhoused spirit, Thranduil proposes a direction. He speaks to Legolas of an emerging leader, someone of whom he had been receiving vital intelligence reports about, someone whose image is a specter of hope in Thranduil's own limited foresight, a note in the song of the world that is about to sing out loud and echo. This _adan_ , if he should hold true to the promise of his potential, will face an endeavor worthy of the talents and friendship of a Woodland Prince. Time with this Strider will also give Legolas a project commensurate to his skills, and aligned with his nascent views of their changing world.

The Prince accepts it readily, and turns his back upon his King, upon his father. And Thranduil makes a final bid for one more moment of his time. One more moment.

"Legolas," he calls.

"Your mother loved you. More than anyone. More than life itself."

It makes him stop. And Thranduil knows that Legolas recognizes the words, now. His mother's final words, the words he'd long asked his father for, that he has sworn never to ask of again so as not to hurt Thranduil anymore.

 _These were the words she said over the roar of fire, even as her skin burned from her bones._

 _Thranduil carried their ailing son – nay, their dying son – away from the pyre of her sacrifice, but he heard her strong, clear voice over the din as she cried it from behind him, for them both to hear._

 _And then he ran, ran for all that he was worth, for he would not let Legolas die, not like this, not after everything._

Legolas' posture softens, and he turns toward his father minutely, showing only part of his face. He bows his head, places a hand to his heart, and gestures it toward his father as an offering.

Thranduil watches Legolas walk away in more purposeful strides with his mission and renewed energy. He, on the other hand, fights to stay rooted to where he stands. To not follow, to not call back. To let his son out into the world, let him fight as he sees fit how, and to stand tall and strong in his own way against darkness and danger.

And all he can do as a father, is to pray fervently for the gods to light every step of his son's way.

 **THE END**

January 24, 2018

 **The next chapter will be the AUTHOR'S AFTERWOD, which will contain the following:**

 **I. The Inspiration for "Story 70"**

 **II. Timeline: How** ** _No Grave, No Memory_** **Fits into Books and Movies**

 **III. The Structure of the Story**

 **IV. The Characters**

 **A. Legolas**

 **B. Thranduil**

 **C. The Queen**

 **D. Sindarin and Silvan Relations**

 **E. Original Characters**

 **V. Acknowledgments**

 **VI. New Project Preview: "Misfire"**

 _In his first year riding with Strider and the Dunedain, Legolas struggles to earn the reclusive band's trust. His plans backfire when he commits a mistake that could cost them the life of one of Elrond's sons._


	11. Author's Afterword and Preview:Misfire

**Hello friends!**

 **If you meant to read the conclusion to _No Grave, No Memory_ , please check out the previous Chapter, Chapter 10. This is the page for the Author's Afterword**, which will explain the creative choices made in the fic, and will give a preview of the new project to come :) Chapter 10 Epilogue and "Chapter" 11 Afterword were posted at the same time, so I understand this may create some confusion.

At any rate, for those interested in the method behind the madness, as well as in the new fic to come, the Afterword:

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD, Contents:**

 **I. The Inspiration for "Story 70"**

 **II. Timeline: How No Grave, No Memory Fits into Books and Movies**

 **III. The Structure of the Story**

 **IV. The Characters**

 **A. Legolas**

 **B. Thranduil**

 **C. The Queen**

 **D. Sindarin and Silvan Relations**

 **E. Original Characters**

 **V. Acknowledgments**

 **VI. New Project Preview: "Misfire"**

 _In his first year riding with Strider and the Dunedain, Legolas struggles to earn the reclusive band's trust. His plans backfire when he commits a mistake that could cost them the life of one of Elrond's sons._

* * *

 **I. Inspiration: "Story 70"**

I noticed that my author profile on Fanfiction . net listed 69 stories such that whatever I would post next was going to be story number 70. It felt like a good, round number and I felt I had to do something special to celebrate that.

I was working on a handful of pieces at the same time (which is why none of them are finished yet lol) but felt that none of them had the "kick" I wanted for a 70th story, so I continued to brainstorm. Nothing clicked until I started thinking about what kinds of stories I _don't_ like writing about.

Folks who've read my work before know that I'm a Legolas fan-girl, and I think I've mentioned here and there that there are a few tropes and topics I do not write because I find them difficult subjects. However, I noticed along the course of my writing that I eventually managed to finish pieces that do go past my comfort zone.

For example, I don't like writing of the death of Aragorn... until I gave it a shot in the epilogue of the recent These Visions of You. I don't like writing Legolas failing in anything or making mistakes hahaha, but one of the chapters of Walking Wounded covered the consequences of a lethal error. Prior to these, I feared writing a "Legomance" (which I played with in one chapter of For Every Evil 3); just as I once feared writing slash (which I've since covered in These Visions of You and Love, War).

Strangely enough I never found trouble depicting a Legolas h/c or even death. I understand now that I have bigger creative fears of depicting his emotional pain than his physical pain. I did not want him to have heavy heartache because (and this is probably true for me personally as well), I feel it is more insurmountable than physical hurt.

So in trying to find the right topic for "Story 70" (as I came to call it while in progress – the document was empty for a long time hahaha), I contemplated the other Legolas topic I really really did not want to touch – the death of his mother.

Content-wise I did not want to touch it because of the subject matter. I did not want to conceive of that kind of devastation for a character I was so fond of. "Logistically" the topic presented other issues too. Legolas' mother has no name, not in the books and not even in the movies. She has no history, other than her movie-mentioned death and the forbidding silence that shrouds it. As a writer of fanfiction, I like at least some basis in the canon but this Woodland Queen is so elusive that she is not even a ghost, she is barely the outlines of a shadow.

What features, what skills, what character and even the most basic – what name – would be worthy of being a beloved character's mother, and of being the truly epic Thranduil's wife?

The more I thought about these difficulties, the more intrigued I became and the more challenge I felt. I put down a few words on paper (well, on MSWord lol). The story, just like the writer hahaha, began with muddled images, questions and confusion. And then it just started writing itself from there. And because of the link to Legolas' mother, its title became No Grave, No Memory after Legolas' line in the film, Battle of the Five Armies, which made a reference to her death. I hope it all worked out!

* * *

 **II. Timeline: How No Grave, No Memory Fits in _The Hobbit_ and _Lord of the Rings_ books and movies**

Some readers like going through fanfiction _prima facie_ , others want to know how a piece like this might fit in the LOTR universe it derives from.

It's hard because the books differ from the movies, but also convenient in a way because fanfiction authors like me can cherry pick whichever detail between the two worlds is convenient or intriguing to write about, hahaha.

The fic should theoretically stand without these notes but at any rate, for those interested, these are the dates and events from the books or movies that I worked around, and why they were relevant to the story:

SA 3434: Death of Oropher

This marks when Thranduil became king after the death of his father. With regard to _No Grave, No Memory_ \- prior to Oropher's death, Thranduil was already with his queen and the Sindar King Oropher was receptive of a Silvan for a daughter-in-law. Why wouldn't he be? Oropher was said to have liked their simple life. More notes on Sindar – Silvan relations below.

TA 87 (MOVIE): Legolas' birthdate?

Legolas' birthdate is a topic for debate. References say an official movie guide from the first trilogy says TA 87, but there is some skepticism about this because he acted with a youthful joy in the books (and so seemed younger than other elves), and is said to not have been in Lorien before, which would have been odd if he was born in the peaceful time prior to the darkening of his home around TA 1000.

This is why I kept the past scenes in _No Grave, No Memory_ with a vague statement on the date, "Early in the Third Age." I wanted Legolas to be a traumatized minor (which is at less than 50 years old for elves, according to LOTR references), but I just did not know when precisely he was born.

TA 1050: Greenwood becomes referred to as "Mirkwood."

In my head, the Woodland Queen's death heralded the darkening of Eryn Galen into Mirkwood. I felt that it was a signal of greater plans and intelligence and order behind the orcs, and one of the opening salvos in the coming War. And so No Grave, No Memory predates the naming of their home as Mirkwood from the rising evil in their south at Dol Guldur, and also predates the later rise of the Kingdom of Angmar.

TA 2509: Celrebrian captured and tormented by orcs

Celebrian, Elrond's wife, was taken in the Redhorn Pass on her way to or from Lothlorien (I forget). She was tortured and kept prisoner. She was eventually rescued by her twin sons Elrohir and Elladan and tended by her husband (but ended up leaving for the Undying Lands later, never having fully recovered from her torment). In No Grave, No Memory, this is the event that triggers the brutal memories of Legolas' youth from earlier in the Third Age.

TA 2941: The Events of _The Hobbit_ , and Specifically, Movie-verse _Battle of the Five Armies_

 _No Grave, No Memory_ was obviously borne of Legolas' conversation with Tauriel, when he spoke of Gundabad:

" _The ancient kingdom of Angmar. This fortress was once its stronghold. It is where they kept their great armories, forged their weapons of war... It is a fell place, Tauriel. In another age our people waged war on those lands. My mother died there. My father does not speak of it. There is no grave, no memory. Nothing._ "

This was where the fic was born – What happened to Legolas' mother in Gundabad? Why doesn't his father talk about it to such an extent that there is 'no grave, no memory?' And also, Legolas had said a line that brought them to Gundabad in the first place – he recognized a symbol on them he 'hasn't seen in a long time.' So I felt that he would have a unique familiarity with Gundabad orcs that could have stemmed from the events of _No Grave, No Memory_.

In terms of timelines, there is one line here that threw me off though – "In another age." Did Legolas mean literally, as in the Second Age? But then again if he meant SA, then it means Legolas would have been born in the SA (before his mom died obviously), which is not widely-believed. Third Age 87 is already disputed as being somewhat early. Therefore, I stuck with receiving this line as figurative. "In another age" must just mean a long time ago.

The Hobbit films are also important in my fic's timelines because of Thranduil's characterization. In the films we have a dark, paranoid and isolationist character. But in the jewels he had commissioned for his wife, there was a sign that he had (1) the capacity to love fiercely; and (2) a willingness to liaise in commerce with the dwarves. So what changed between the implied sociability of Thranduil, and the isolationist King in the films? To me, it was a traumatizing event like that depicted in _No Grave, No Memory_.

So, putting all of this together...

The italicized past parts of _No Grave, No Memory_ are set between TA 87 (when Legolas may have been born) but before TA 2941 (when his movie-verse mom was already dead). Further narrowed, the past parts are set between TA 87 and TA 1050 (when the Greenwood kingdom was already known as Mirkwood and had become more isolated). The regular font present parts of No Grave, No Memory are set in TA 2509 after the rescue of Celebrian but before she sailed in 2510.

The third timeline in the story comes in the epilogue. As is apparent to those who have seen The Hobbit films, the third interlude is set during BOTFA in TA 2941 when Legolas and Thranduil finally have as much of a conversation about the Queen as they could manage after the long, sordid history of trying to forget her.

Aside from this direct reference to a scene from one of PJ's movies, many eagle-eyed movie fans will likely have noticed that I also peppered the fic with miscellaneous lines from the films just as a callback to the language and the feeling they invoked. Off the top of my head, I used "Leave the dead," "The grief is still too near" and "You're late."

If none of this makes sense or if I erred in research somewhere, never mind lol. These references are just things I try to hold on to, to inform my writing. I don't think it matters too much if the story was also simply taken at face value.

* * *

 **III. The Structure of _No Grave, No Memory_**

I know the style I used of skipping back and forth in time can be confusing. I tried to ease this using past tense and italics for the past, and present tense and regular font for the present. But writing alternately in tenses is difficult and I often got confused myself! At some point in writing the instances of the past, I even wondered if the scenes were still interesting to the reader and relevant to the narrative, but I forged on even when I sometimes got impatient to write the angstier, more exciting parts.

I've been obsessing about a fic by the incomparable ziggy3 on this site lately, and if you have time (and courage, because the work is both voluminous and boundary-pushing in the best possible way), give it a shot. But I realized one of the best reasons I really liked it was the writer's sense of patient discipline. Every relationship is well-earned, a facet that is sometimes missing in my works.

For the relationships I depict to be well-earned, I felt I had to do a better job of fleshing out interactions. I had to be less gratuitous and impatient. I had to show more than tell. For example, this means that Legolas doesn't just hurt because his mother dies – I had to rely less on the label of "mother" and show her as a person, flesh and blood, even flawed. This means I had to show not only the pain of her loss, but she had to be deserving of Legolas' love and high regard. It was never going to feel like a loss, unless she was worthy of it.

In short – I had to show the past, I had to show its levity and weight – for the love between characters to be earned. I know the past parts can be sometimes disruptive (or worse boring lol), but this is the reason why and I hope you didn't mind indulging me.

On another note – I always talk about the medium being the message and I tried to keep to that in No Grave, No Memory. The story is moved by confusion on time, so it is not told chronologically. Furthermore, I don't know if anyone else noticed, but anytime I switched from present to past or from past to present, the last couple words or sentiments from the previous timeline are mentioned in reverse order in the timeline that follows it. For example, in Chapters 1 and 2:

Chapter 1 (present time) ends with: "...captured and held prisoner in Gundabad all those YEARS AGO."

Chapter 2 (past) starts with: "It wasn't so long AGO – YEARS barely a handful."

Also in Chapter 2:

Last Line in a Past Scene: "She would not have found me worthy of HER TIME."

First Line in the Present Scene Succeeding: "It's been a long TIME...HER death and what you both suffered..."

I think I did this for every shift between timeline, sometimes the exact words, other times a different tense, sometimes the words are beside each other, other times they are slightly apart (but always in the first line). Either way, I felt it gave the past and the present a connection and the words a swinging rhythm, going back and forth just as the timeline goes back and forth. It also became like a writing prompt for me, which made the process interesting :)

* * *

 **IV. Characters**

A. Legolas

 **Character Development**. There are two Legolases in this fic. The first is the sheltered, naïve, young privileged prince with the fancy friends, who wins everything (including damned regattas hahaha). I was enamored by the vision of him and his cliquish friends, but he is still different from them in ways he could not yet understand. He had for example, more decency and compassion for his wilder and "lesser" Silvan side, but he kept his distance from them too. He was really a young elf figuring out his place in their world. This was the Legolas depicted in the italicized past, who quickly changes during his traumatic ordeal.

The second Legolas is more implied; the wood-elf we fans know, who identifies as Silvan, who uses the weapons of his mother and grandfather rather than his father's, who is less fancy than a Sindar royal. Thranduil, for example, was Sindar noble through and through, yet the Legolas of the Fellowship was more naturalistic. Why were they so different even if they were father and son living in the same place? I felt No Grave, No Memory, attempts to answer that – Legolas had taken in much of his Silvan side's ways, perhaps in honor of his grandfather and mother, perhaps because they awakened that side in him. Either way – _No Grave, No Memory_ , bridges that difference between Thranduil and Legolas.

 **Medical Details**. I love angst and hurt/comfort in general, but I need some grounding in reality to make a depiction more plausible. For example, a fic in the LOTR setting may not "diagnose" a disease in our current medical sense, but I do keep it in mind so that I can have a consistent and realistic set of symptoms and cures to work from. In the case of _No Grave, No Memory_ , I knew I was going to work on the subject of torture, so I needed to research what precisely torture does to a body.

 **Torture Pathology**. Surprisingly, there are not a lot of details on this. Sure, horrifying details and imagery, especially from medieval times, are readily available. But debriefing and especially autopsies of what a body and mind undergo under torture conditions are rare because these are usually done outside the bounds of law. This means there is limited public documentation, if there is any documentation at all. There are a scant few autopsies conducted on torture victims who die in detention, for example, because it is not in the interest of authorities to conduct them, in case they are held liable. But there are some details publicly available.

So what precisely were the physical effects of the tortures used here? One can get beaten to death obviously, but the most serious injury inflicted on Legolas and the nameless affliction he was dying from was renal failure due to the stress position called "reverse hanging" or "strappado" that he was kept in.

The effect of certain stress positions – unnatural body positions that are meant to strain a captive into discomfort and pain – surprised me during my research. Apparently, "reverse hanging" can cause muscle damage to the extent that muscle fibers can die and rapidly break down. This releases content like myoglobin (a protein) into the bloodstream that ultimately makes its way into kidneys unable to properly deal with them. The result then, is death by renal / kidney failure even after just a few hours of suspension. Renal failure symptoms therefore, are the ones most prominently used in the fic. Like I said – the story does not diagnose this, but for those who are intrigued, this is the basis for the symptoms depicted and why they were so serious. This is a real cause of death for torture victims held at length in stress positions.

 **Memory Regression Recovery**. Another "quasi-medical" topic explored in No Grave, No Memory is the three ministers' attempt to unearth repressed memories from someone feverish and delirious. Can a mind really secret trauma away into dark corners, and later draw them out?

I say "quasi" because memory regression and recovery has its critics and some experiments in the past have actually yielded what could be "false memories." But there are many in the scientific community who believe there is some basis to pursue this study. Some have used drugs. Some have used hypnosis. In the case of No Grave, No Memory, I subscribed to the existing theory that when the body goes into a state similar to how it had been at the time of a traumatic experience, the locked memories can resurface.

In this fic, Legolas' memory was lost both from physical and mental trauma. He recalled broad strokes of what had happened, but not minute details. When he returned to a similar state of how he felt during his captivity (fever, delirium, etc.), and saw the similar images of Celebrian's physical state when she was rescued, his memories about his mother were triggered into returning.

 **Endurance Training**. Lastly, the three ministers were cornering Legolas for answers because they needed his knowledge for strategic purposes. This might seem cruel, but the fact is - Militaries all over the world do conduct training based on the experience of soldiers who have evaded, escaped or withstood capture. In the United States, this is the SERE Training – Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape.

This is of particular importance for soldiers who may be considered high value targets for capture (like those who have vital intelligence). The official practice of training with these topics began around World War II, when "clubs" formed from survivors and their knowledge was collected, codified and shared. This is why the intense debriefing of people who had come from SERE situations is so important; you can codify a learning that would inform and help other soldiers in the future.

There is no one technique for how to go through torture though, so I cherry-picked what I felt fit in the situation for No Grave, No Memory. One of the things I came across in my research that really resonated with me was that everyone is meant to break – you just have to break later so that the knowledge you have becomes outdated. Some perspectives though, prefer death before giving in. There is just no single way.

B. Thranduil

Character Development. Like the two Legolases described above, there are two Thranduils too. The first is the formidable royal who was tough and reserved but also had capacity for love and sociability. As I mentioned earlier, he had to have been a different person prior to his Queen's death because his portrayal showed a loving King, and one who was not always so closed off and isolationist.

My guiding image for his portrayal here is ice. Most of the language I used for his characterization used this if you noticed, but often with the accompanying image of churning dark beneath an icy façade that if cracked, revealed depths.

This is in a way my central thesis of Thranduil's characterization. He is someone who seems distant and severe, only because of defensiveness, because his grief is always just beneath the surface, always "too near," to borrow Legolas' words from FOTR. That distance is as true for the outside world as it is in how he deals with his son and his personal feelings after his wife's death.

For me, it is that paralyzing grief, always teasing at the edges, looking over his shoulder, a monkey on his back, ready to pounce and take over... that is the main reason for everything he has done since his wife's death. It is why he does not memorialize her. It is why he started looking down upon Silvans. It is why he does not want Legolas to marry one. It is why he becomes defensive of whatever he has left. It is also why he has become distant from his son. To really love, as he would tell Tauriel in the film, hurts very badly indeed.

C. The Queen

 **She has no name**. As I said, one of my greatest difficulties in moving forward with this was the black hole that was Legolas' mother. But in keeping with my medium-is-the-message fixation, I determined right from the beginning of the fic that she would have no name and no perspective from which the tale would be told. I wanted her to feel alien and removed, just as she is removed and shadowy in canon.

 **Most of her identity here derives from her Silvan heritage** and what I liked believing to be their more natural and wild ways. I wanted to show her hands-on, pragmatic, fiery approach to life. I wanted her to be a little untamed, but to find a certain impervious regal-ness to her heritage. I knew treading the line between royal and unruly was hard, but I hope it worked out. And just as my thesis for Thranduil's character is ice, hers is its foil, fire. Because she is more fiery sure, but also because she is his weakness.

I was also intrigued by the thought that Thranduil would have a kind of bad relationship with fire. He'd been scarred by dragonfire in the movies; he lost his wife in a fire in my fic; and later during the War of the Ring, we know Mirkwood was said to be attacked with great fire too.

 **Her characterization also derived from being a wife and a mother**. Another thing I hoped worked out was her relative distance from Legolas. I wanted to give him a "tiger mom" as they say nowadays haha. I couldn't resist the thought once it grazed my mind that the mighty and formidable Thranduil was actually the "nice" parent, lol. But I hope her love for her son still shone through.

She was a hardy elf, not too affectionate, but in my head canon, she's had centuries of practice being a wife so she was slightly better at showing love for Thranduil. I liked depicting her fixatuon for his hair as a symbol of this. This is actually why I wanted Thranduil to cut it off and toss the strands to the fire that burned her, as a tribute to his lost wife.

Hair is historically an important signifier of many things (a previous fic of mine, Great Lengths, that can be found in the series of one-shots called The Halls of my Home, also delves into this). Cutting it for example, has been used in some cultures to signify a major change in one's life. If you've ever gotten a haircut after a break-up haha, this is probably that instinct coming out. Thranduil's hair is also important in his movie characterization. I think in the DVD commentaries of featurettes, they talk about how styling him with his hair loose even in combat makes it look as if nothing can ever disturb him. So when he cuts his hair in No Grave, No Memory, it is a symbolic moment for the character of really leaving his dead, and of his moment of vulnerability, on top of giving his beloved Queen his hair just because she had loved it so much.

 **The Queen Was Raped**. I honestly struggled with this inclusion for many reasons. I did not want to glorify it. I feared depicting it with disrespect. I feared not having the ability to convey its gravity. But as I had mentioned in the opening notes of Chapter 8, sexual assault is unfortunately prevalent in situations of conflict. It is an assault on an individual, and because of the role women played in many societies, an assault to the community (though of course this war crime is not exclusive to females).

It is an ages old problem. From Homer's time writing Iliad all the way back in our human history, violating women had already been understood as a weapon against one's enemies. Rape has been used to demoralize the other side. It has been used to rip apart families and communities. It has been used as relief, "comfort" and spoils for conquering soldiers in World War II. Systemic rape has been used for genocide to control the racial makeup of a population as recently as the 1990s. It is cheap, effective and pleasurable for aggressors to use it as a weapon.

This is why sexual assault makes it into the pages of _No Grave, No Memory_. Tolkien depicted a time of war, and had never been shy about the torments characters could be subject to. The list of captured characters is long and the things they suffered was brutal. I felt that in a setting of such merciless conflict, sexual assault was something that could have been at play, because it had actually been at tragic play for as long as our own real, sordid human history. Thankfully, activists are making more headway into bringing awareness of sexual assault in conflict settings. This is a wide-ranging problem, especially in our fractured world. When there is war, it is the defenseless and vulnerable that really suffer.

Speaking of Tolkien... sexual relations are pretty complex in this universe. And with regard to forced sex for elves, there is a note on the infamous LACE that may dictate death for those who suffer this, which I obviously did not subscribe to in No Grave, No Memory because the Silvan Queen survives it. While I can accept that I am going against LACE in this sense, I also believe that Tolkien was somewhat flexible in aspects of his own canon because there are exceptions, equivocations, evolutions and even some inconsistencies in the large and sometimes overwhelming body of his published and posthumously published or unfinished work. A whole lot of uncertainties too. This is what makes his universe so alive, and why it is literature that is still so deep and rich that it remains relevant and debated.

 **Cannibalism**. Not speaking of the Queen of course, but related to the subject of torture, is the violence of cannibalism that was also depicted in my story. We know orcs engage in it. But its use in wartime actually derives from our own real history too. Particularly, I was stricken by the tragic and brutal fate of a handful of American POW's kept in Chichi-jima during World War II (described in James Bradley's nonfiction Flyboys). I read it years ago and never forgot this type of torment.

My greatest fear about this fic is a failure to depict any of these situations with the gravity and respect they deserve, especially given their historical roots. I sincerely hope I managed to convey these situations in the proper light.

D. Sindarin Elves and Silvan Elves

The films differ from Tolkien's original in their "race relations." In The Hobbit movie, it may be recalled that Tauriel once said to Thranduil - "I do not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf" – implying Silvans were looked down upon by the Sindar (Thranduil and perhaps Oropher before him or the other Sindar in the community).

Yet in the books Legolas identified as Silvan and so, since Thranduil is Sindar, he must identify on his mom's side (so Thranduil picked a Silvan for himself), or at the very least identified with the majority of the people in his father's kingdom. The Sindar Oropher, to begin with, is said to have "gone native" as they say, in appreciating their simpler, more natural ways. So how do we reconcile these contrasting things? How can they be aspirational but also lowly?

In _No Grave, No Memory_ , I kept to the idea of a minority Sindar ruling over the Silvans, in a political situation that works for the most part. But they do have preconceived notions about each other, an underlying and usually benign tension. The Silvans were perceived as rural, wild, closer to nature, untamed. The Sindar were courtly, more aloof, more materialistic. But they did share similar values – pride, courage, loyalty, honor to the word, a sense of justice, and a respect for the living Earth.

But there had to be nuance too; elves are individuals and individuals can be corrupted, we've seen this in canon. They can be tempted and some will succumb. In No Grave, No Memory, Orthordir's sense of being excluded, his loyalty to the Silvans and his belief in the waste of life from Oropher's shortcomings have been twisted. Why not have a Silvan ruler over a Silvan people? Someone has been whispering in his ear... I left it vague who exactly did that, but we do know from Tolkien's works that Sauron and his ilk were not averse to sending messengers for liaising, threatening and/or deal-making with other people of Middle-Earth.

At any rate, I also felt _No Grave, No Memory_ should be able to breach the gap between the Thranduil who found union with the Silvans in the book, to the Thranduil who looked down upon them in the movies – they were betrayed. Silvans violated his trust, and he would not have his son pledged to someone "lowly."

E. Original Characters

So I have used my usual Mirkwood OCs here – Maenor the healer, Lastor the Intelligence Minister, and Brenion the War Minister. They are characterized here the way they usually are. Maenor is compassionate, efficient and has a dry humor compatible to Legolas'. Brenion is bawdy, a soldier's soldier, Thranduil's oldest friend. Lastor is more freaky, kind of clinical, intellectually driven, insatiably curious, very objective. But the same names and same characterizations does not mean all the fics are part of any larger universe for me :) I don't have a masterplan for how all of these fics go together, and am always open about using a consistent set of characters for my own writing convenience :) At the end of the day, I just hope the original characters do not distract from the fic and work to make the main characters we love shine :)

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 **V. Acknowledgements**

Thank you so much for all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who shared their comments and insights with me in reviews as well as in PMs.

I say this a lot but I do not mean it any less – every single note counts, no matter how long or short. It reminds writers they are not just screaming their tales out against the void, because it can be a vey, very lonely thing to do. Also, one of the most magical things about fanfiction is its community, its sense of collaboration. We make each other better, and a big part of that is reviewing. People won't always have time, and some readers are more shy than others about sharing their thoughts, but for those who do put up constructive comments and criticism, thank you so much for your generosity, particularly:

3326freespirit, Annika Greenwood, Aqua Fortis, AraneltheSilvan, Bookworm624, Elvenprincesscher, FritzyM4, Hawaiichick, J, Jaya Avendel, Lily. Y, LuteofLorien, Ninde, pandorias, qurat, Starfox500, SuicidalQueen, UnnamedElement, wswpub, yolcia and of course, guests and anonymous reviewers :) You guys are a treasure :)

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 **VI. Next Project Preview: "Misfire"**

This will be a light, straightforward friendship and h/c one-shot after all the madness that had been No Grave, No Memory :) It was actually part of a larger fic that I wasworking on, but since I am not sure if I will be continuing with that and this can stand alone... here it is :) For some levity, hahaha:

Summary: _In his first year riding with Strider and the Dunedain, Legolas struggles to earn the reclusive band's trust. His plans backfire when he commits a mistake that could cost them the life of one of Elrond's sons._

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"Legolas, stop."

The wood-elf archer gave the pale, ailing Noldo lying on the ground beside him the barest glance, before his steely blue gaze slanted back toward his target. He released the arrow he'd been holding back, and sucked in small, painful breaths at the consequent release in pressure against his strained, healing ribs.

He could see from the hilly incline of their vantage point that the arrow, like all the ones that had come before it, proved true and found its target. It felled an orc and Legolas drew again. For a moment his side exploded in white hot pain, and he could not help the small, frustrated growl that escaped him, nor the grimace it had contorted his face into. But his stance held, and he clenched his teeth and pulled back to find another mark. He tamed his trembling body and looked down at the battlefield below. He had broken into a cold sweat too, and he blinked at the wetness near his eyes.

It wouldn't do anyone any good, oh no, if he ended up hitting one of the Dunedain by friendly fire. But he was confident with his aim. He picked out an orc coming up behind one of his comrades with a club raised, and he released.

The orc fell, but so did Legolas, down to his hands and knees. He doubled over coughing. Releasing the shaft was more painful and sudden than the build-up he felt from drawing, or the strain he felt from holding a drawn arrow. Spots danced before his eyes, and he drew in small, inadequate, whistling breaths. He was tempted to pull in deeper but he knew those would only hurt him more. Slowly, he regained control of his body. Even from his knees he could shoot. He reached for his quiver on the ground beside him. He hadn't even been well enough to wear it.

" _Mellon-nin_ , please. You need to stop."

The waver in Elladan's voice alongside the heretofore unused term of friendship between them compelled him to look at Elrondion with more attention. The dark-haired elf from Imladris looked ghastly pale as he sat, heavily leaned upon the trunk and between the raised roots of an obliging tree.

The reason why was painfully clear to see – an arrow shaft of orcish-make protruded from Elladan's left shoulder at a downward angle. He had been dragged out of the fighting in the valley below by his twin brother Elrohir, and hurriedly deposited where he was now sitting. They feared a laceration to the arteries, and knew pulling the shaft out for field treatment or even having the wound jarred during battle could end Elladan in minutes.

 _"Do not pull out the shaft and do not, for the love of the gods, allow this fool brother of mine to move!" Elrohir had ordered Legolas as he left, running back down into the fray with just a quick, regretful glance behind him at the brother he could not yet tend. The skirmish had become more of a small battle by then, with the surprising arrival of orc reinforcements. They all understood a warrior of Elrohir's capacity could not yet be spared, not even for his brother's treatment._

 _The deterioration of the situation was also why Legolas, sidelined from the fighting due to a previous injury, had scrambled to his feet, picked up his bow, and near emptied his own quiver. He had seen from his vantage that the enemy forces, while not nearly large nor skilled enough to defeat the hardy Dunedain, could very well take a number of the men down with them._

"I have one shot left," Legolas ground out through clenched teeth and hitching breath, "I can't stand by and do nothing."

"That is precisely what you are supposed to be doing!"

"Not... technically." Legolas gave him a sick grin.

He had suffered broken ribs from a skirmish a week past, and despite the quick and appropriate treatment (and less appropriate nor quick fuss) given him by Strider and the twins, he developed congestion in his lungs that stole his breath, and a high fever that sapped his strength – kind compliments of hard riding and camping in the cold outdoors during the rainy season, in chorus with the badly broken ribs and the (now dead) orc that had dealt him a near fatal, blunt blow to the side of his chest.

The days since have been a blur of pain and confusion. The company could not stop from its mission for the sake of what was truly a survivable even if painful injury and complication. But Legolas had rightfully not been allowed to ride on his own, nor carry his own things. He sometimes rode in Strider's arms, or in one of the twins' (he couldn't tell them apart when he was ill).

One good thing from his sickness was that he was too miserable to feel too embarrassed. He'd never had cause to rely on strangers so much before. He'd been hurt yes, but amongst his own people in the Woodland. He was relatively new riding with this company, and yet they were solicitous, especially from the perspective of an isolationist King's only child.

Legolas was wise enough to feel gratitude. And in the calmer corners of his beleaguered mind, he had hoped the company would find no combat until he was in fighting form so that he could be of better use to them and repay their kindness in some fashion. But that was not to be the case. Suddenly there they were, caught in another skirmish. At least his thinking was the clearest it's been in days.

That, however, did not mean his body was able to fight. As a matter of fact, it was Elladan himself who had deposited him to sit on the ground away from the battle, resting upon the same exact tree Legolas would later yield to the injured Noldo when he was dragged back with an arrow on his chest.

 _"I found our wood-elf a most obliging tree," Elladan had said quickly but gently, as he eased Legolas down. "I hope it is to your liking, Legolas, for here you must stand your ground and stay. I need your mithril-clad word you will not run in there after us and fight, Thranduilion. No matter what. You are not fit, and would endanger not only yourself, but all others who will worry and fight for you."_

 _In invoking the Elvenking-his-father's name, Elladan had also invoked Legolas' sense of duty and so, he responded accordingly._

 _"My word," Legolas said with a grave nod. They were both warriors and they knew their business. Legolas would have asked anyone he was with to do the same if the situations were reversed._

 _And so for a while at least, Legolas watched from his designated post, trembling from both malady and apprehension as he watched his comrades fight below – the Dunedain he'd been touring with the past year and the impressive young Ranger Chieftain who led them, Strider, along with the surprising presence of Elrond of Imladris' twin sons, who Legolas knew by loose acquaintance._

 _He had been left behind by his tree hurriedly, but not unarmed. Strider settled Legolas' twin knives near where he sat, and Elrohir did the same with his bow and quiver of arrows on the other side. Legolas knew they were to be used only in case his vulnerable presence was sensed by the orcs and he needed to defend himself._

 _When the battle started deteriorating however, he realized he was in an ideal position to defend his friends instead, broken bones be damned. He rose from the tree Elladan had sat him upon and started shooting, and when Elrohir trudged up the path bearing the injured Elladan, Legolas gave them covering fire. Elrohir gave him a brief, grateful and worried glance but voiced no complaints._

Elladan, however, was having none of it.

"There's blood on your teeth, wood-elf," Elladan said quietly.

Legolas knew that, he'd tasted the metallic tang when he coughed from some shots back and from all the coughing since. "Don't make me get up and try to stop you."

It was the only threat that would have worked. Legolas did not want the twin, whose life literally depended on staying immobile, to move on his behalf.

"If you did not want me to shoot," he tried to appease the dark-haired elf with a joke, "You should have settled me much, much farther." He picked up the last shaft from his quiver. "See? It is just as well as this is the last one."

He made no effort to mask his groan when he straightened up. Elladan rolled his eyes back at him in consternation, but let him do as he wished. Legolas stayed on his knees as he drew, aimed, and shot accurately again. Then he more or less crawled toward Elladan, who held himself stiffly to refrain from moving but was still nevertheless becoming paler and paler. His gray eyes had also become glassier, and he breathed as harshly as Legolas did.

Legolas glanced at the site of the arrow wound. It looked neat, but he deduced there must already be some bleeding inside. Elladan shivered, already in the beginnings of shock. Legolas winced as he maneuvered out of his own cloak and placed it over the other elf, careful to avoid the protruding arrow shaft.

" _Hannon-le_ ," Elladan said wearily, "But you need it just as much as I do."

"I did," Legolas said grimly and already he felt much colder too. But he tried to suppress his shivering to keep his ribs from being jarred, and so that the much-worse-off elf would not bother worrying about anyone else's welfare but his own. "But now you need it more."

They fell to a long moment of silence, broken by the nearby sounds of battle – rallying cries, clinking armor, moans of pain, gurgles of the dying, swords singing... but the sudden whoosh! of a crossbow and the thwok! of a hit body followed by a pained yelp had Legolas turning away from Elladan and back towards the battle.

The enemy had a sharpshooter, too.

 **TO BE CONCLUDED AND POSTED AS A ONE-SHOT SOON!**

 **'Til then - thank you everyone and have a great weekend!**


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